955 
DZ7I5 

cals 


Qracious  Visitation 

WRITTEN  BY 

EMMA  FRANCES  DAWSON 


WITH  AN  APPRECIATION  BY 
AMBROSE  BIERCE 


SAN  FRANCISCO: 

THE  BOOK  CLUB  OF  CALIFORNIA 
MCMXXI 


EMMA  FRANCES  DAWSON 

to  BY  AMBROSE  BIERCE  « 


IN  nearly  all  of  Miss  Dawson's  work  that  I  have 
seen  is  an  elusive  something  defying  analysis,  even 
description— something  that  is  not  in  the  words.  I 
do  not  know  how  she  gets  it  where  it  is;  I  never  could 
either  surprise  her  secret  by  swift  strokes  of  attention, 
come  upon  it  by  patient  still-hunting,  nor  in  any  way 
get  at  the  trick  of  it.  I  can  name  it  only  in  metaphor 
as  a  light  behind  the  words;  a  light  like  that  ofPoe's 
"red  litten  eves";  a  light  such  as  falls  at  sunset  up 
on  desolate  marshes,  tingeing  the  plumage  of  the  tall 
heron  and  prophesying  the  joyless  laugh  of  the  loon. 
That  selfsame  light  shines  somewhere  through  and 
under  Dore  }s  long  parallel  cloud-bands  along  his  hori 
zons,  and  I  have  seen  it,  with  an  added  bleakness, 
backgrounding  the  tall  rood  in  the  Lone  Mountain 
cemetery  of  San  Francisco.  I  dare  say  it  is  all  very 
easy — to  Miss  Dawson:  she  simply  writes  and  some 
"remote,  unfriended,  melancholy" ancestor  stands  by 
to  "do  the  rest." 

The  scene  of  all  Miss  Dawson 's  stories  is  San  Fran 
cisco—her  San  Francisco— San  Francisco  as  she  sees 
it  from  her  eyrie  atop  of  "Russian  Hill. "  To  her  it  is 


R87G75 


a  dream  city— a  city  of  wraiths  and  things  forbidden 
to  the  semes— of  half-heard  whispers  from  tombs 
of  men  long  dead  and  damned— of  winds  that  sing 
dirges,  clouds  that  are  signs  and  portents,  fogs  peopled 
with  fantastic  existences  pranking  like  mad,  as  is 
the  habit  of  all  sea-folk  on  shore  leave— a  city  where 
it  is  never  morning,  where  the  birds  never  sing,  where 
children  are  unknown,  and  where  at  night  the  street 
lights  at  the  summits  of  the  hills ( ( flare  as  if  out  of  the 
sky, "  signalling  mysterious  messages  from  another 
world.  In  short,  this  sister  to  Hugo  has  breathed  into 
the  gross  material  San  Franciso  so  strange  a  soul  that 
to  him  who  has  read  her  book*  the  name  of  the  town 
must  henceforth  have  a  meaning  that  never  before  at 
tached  to  any  word  of  human  speech.  Wherefore  I  say 
of  this  book  that  it  is  a  work  of  supreme  genius;  and 
I  try  to  have  faith  to  believe  that  whatever  else  may 
befall  it,  while  the  language  in  which  it  is  written 
remains  intelligible  to  men  it  will  not  fail  to  challenge 
the  attention  and  engage  the  interest  of  the  judicious. 
To  those  who  have  feared  the  effect  upon  Miss  Daw- 
son's  powers  of  time,  sorrow,  privation  and  hope  de 
ferred,  it  is  a  joy  to  note  that  her  latest  and  longest 
story,  "A  Gracious  Visitation' '—the  one  written  es- 

*  "An  Itinerant  House  and  Other  Stories"  published  by 
William  Doxey  in  1897. 


pecially  for  this  volume,  the  others  being  from  twenty 
to  thirty  years  old— is  the  best.  It  is  indeed  a  marvel 
ous  creation,  and  I  know  of  nothing  in  literature 
having  a  sufficient  resemblance  to  it  to  serve  as  a  basis 
of  comparison.  In  point  of  mere  originality,  I  should 
say  it  is  unsurpassed  and  unsurpassable;  the  ability 
to  figure  to  oneself  a  story  more  novel  and  striking 
would,  in  a  'writer,  imply  the  ability  to  'write  one— 
-which  I  think  the  most  capable  writer  would  be  slow 
est  to  claim.  [  1897  ] 


ALL  those  strange  things  and  secret 
decrees  and  unrevealed  transactions, 
'which  are  above  the  clouds  and  far 
beyond  the  regions  of  the  Stars  shall 
combine  in  ministry. 

— Jeremy  Taylor. 

WHO  sleeps  on  graves,  rises  mad  or 
a  poet.  —Tzigane  Proverb. 


A  GRACIOUS  VISITATION 

$••  BY  EMMA  FRANCES  DAWSON  <•? 


The  first  time  so  faint  and  far  that  I  could  not 
tell  it  from  the  hauntings  of  the  inner  ear  known 
to  all  musicians,  the  chance  strains  evoked  for 
me  by  the  differing  keys  of  the  fog  signals. 

I  lived  in  a  region  of  remote  sounds.  On  Rus 
sian  Hill  I  looked  down  as  from  a  balloon;  all 
there  is  of  the  stir  of  thecity  comes  in  distant  bells 
and  whistles,  changing  their  sound,  just  as  the 
scenery  moves,  according  to  the  state  of  the  at 
mosphere.  The  islands  shift  as  if  enchanted,  now 
near  and  plain,  then  removed  and  dim.  The  bay 
widening,  sapphire  blue,  or  narrowing,  green 
and  gray,  or,  before  a  storm,  like  quicksilver.  The 
hills  overthe  water  drawing  close,  green  or  snowy, 
showing  whether  their  buildings  miles  away  are 
of  brick  or  wood,  or  all  is  thrust  into  blue  distance, 
or  brushed  away,  a  bank  of  fog  looking  as  if  the 
world  reached  no  farther.  The  city  lights  twin 
kling  of  long  lines  of  romances  or  hidden  by  the 
gray  slides  that  shut  off  all  in  life  but  the  wails 


of  warning  to  the  sailors.  Great  heat  spreading 
stretches,  as  of  piles  of  white  wool  upon  the 
water.  Sharp  edges  everywhere  bringing  the  city 
huddling  into  itself,  as  in  fear  of  the  coming 
storm.  It  is  like  having  genii  for  companions,  so 
picturesque  and  constantly  varying  are  the  alter 
nate  movement  and  exchange  of  currents  from 
the  sea  of  air  and  the  sea  of  water,  tremendous 
forces  of  life,  showing  me  personality,  pulse  and 
arteries,  as  traced  by  Maury,  who  even  suggests 
for  the  ocean  a  heart— the  equator.  Their  com 
panionship  enlarges  and  enriches  the  mind,  the 
air  uplifting  with  its  symbolic  effects,  the  sea  re 
sponding  to  movements  of  far-off  worlds,  and  a 
highway  for  distant  nations. 

I  watched  not  only  our  steamers  and  ferry-boats 
and  yacht-races,  like  a  flock  of  white  birds  hover 
ing  over  the  blue,  but  Arctic  whaler,  South  Sea 
trader,  Mexican,  Chilean,  and  Peruvian  coaster, 
Chinese  junk,  Australian  and  Japanese  merchant 
men,  Malay  prahu,  double-decker,  corvette,  frig 
ate,  men-of-war  under  all  flags. 

Never  again  my  husband's  ship,  never  again! 

To  have  my  house  full  of  curios  he  had  brought 
from  long  voyages,  and  to  be  able  to  always  look 
at  the  shipping  on  the  water,  was  some  comfort 

2 


for  the  sore  heart  that  sought  loneliness  as  a 
wounded  animal  hides.  At  first  there  were  long, 
wakeful  nights,  when  I  sat  in  my  window,  till 
the  harbor  signal-lights  grew  like  dear  friends. 
Gradual  healing  came,  in  the  stillness  which 
makes  the  town,  although  within  stone's  throw 
below,  seem  yet  unbuilt;  on  the  pure  blasts  from 
mid-ocean  spaces  where  none  have  breathed;  in 
the  gorgeous  sunsets  that  give  the  meanest  Cin 
derella  the  freedom  of  fairy  cities;  in  never-to- 
be-forgotten  clouds  effects,  as  when  the  aerial  sea 
hints  knowledge  of  ocean  depths,  showing  mack- 
eral  spots  or  the  Pope's  signet,  once,  a  perfect 
skeleton  of  a  whale,  and,  before  a  tempest,  a  gi 
gantic,  livid  hand,  with  its  Saturn  finger  torn 
out,  pointed  long  toward  the  Golden  Gate  as  if 
calling  up  a  gale,  or  signalling  its  coming  from 
thousands  of  miles  at  sea.  Often  the  whole  sky 
was  of  such  terrific  import  that  I  feared  Mich- 
elet's  waves,  like  a  mob  of  eyeless,  earless  beasts, 
foaming  at  the  mouth,  demanding  universal 
death,  suppression  of  the  earth,  and  return  to 
chaos;  but  I  learned  that  a  dread  menace  of  the 
sky  may  mean  nothing  here,  ending  in  dire  effects 
on  distant  waters.  I  had  no  longer  to  fear  for  my 
husband's  ship.  I  could  enjoy  seeing  a  storm 

3 


sweep  in,  slowly  blotting  Gate,  Presidio,  Tamal- 
pais,  and  Angel  Island,  in  my  view  hours  before 
its  descent  upon  the  eastern  side  of  the  town ; 
or  black  clouds  as  of  thunder  over  Tamalpais 
fringe  into  trailing  wreaths  like  smoke  that  blow 
inland,  shaking  loose  rafter  and  blind,  and  rat 
tling  door-lock;  or  hearing  a  gale  beating  doors 
and  windows,  threatening  down  the  chimney, 
straining  to  lift  the  whole  house,  and  shrieking 
in  wrath  about  it. 

All  this  made  the  busy  streets  very  dull.  Born 
with  a  sort  of  temperamental  hasheesh  in  my  veins 
which  makes  a  book  affect  like  a  whirlwind,  a 
picture  soothe  as  manna  from  Heaven,  a  piece  of 
music  seem  crushing  disaster,  I  lived  in  exciting 
times,  as  if  always  looking  on  at  the  opera  of  the 
Flying  Dutchman.  This  led  to  my  rhyming  about 
one  of  its  airs. 

SPINNING  SONG 
Wagner-Listz 

I  turn  the  wheel  of  thrumming  whir, 
Hear  tread  of  life  and  love  and  hate. 

I  burn,  I  feel  through  humming  stir 
The  thread  is  rife  with  grief  and  fate. 

Witch-cat  light  purring,  purring  light, 
Breathe  of  high  wind  by  wizard  sold, 

4 


White  horses'  flight  in  rushing  might 
By  lashing  blast  alone  controlled. 

Yo-ho-ho-ho  !     Yo-ho-ho-ho  ! 

Far  sailor-cries  float,  dinning  long, 
Blend  billowy,  fray  in  thinning  throng, 

I  thrill,  I  play  the  spinning  song. 

Twirl,  wheel,  whose  magic  moan  and  drone 

Shades  golden  hope  with  tint  of  gloom. 
Whirl,  wheel,  whose  tragic  monotone 

Braids  holden  scope  with  hint  of  doom. 
The  wheel — the  wheel — the  wheel — thewheel- 

Dream-spinner  moving  to  and  fro— 
Night  hours  reveal  a  plunging  keel 

Where  rolling  gale  and  breakers  blow. 

Yo-ho-ho-ho  !     Yo-ho-ho-ho  ! 

Far  sailor-cries  float,  dinning  long, 
Veer  billowy,  stray  in  thinning  throng. 

Sheer  thrill,  I  play  the  spinning  song. 

Roll,  fashion  murmur,  in  thy  gyre, 
Of  seash ells'  muffling,  that  is  yet 

Dole,  passion,  all  the  world's  desire, 
Brief  foam-bells  ruffling  our  veins'  fret. 

Glide,  slurring,  slurring  wheel,  go  round, 
Mock  cordage-wail  of  fated  sail 

5 


Make  blurring,  blurring  of  a  sound 
As  if  all  frail  hearts  did  bewail. 

Yo-ho-ho-ho  !     Yo-ho-ho-ho  ! 

Far  sailor-cries  float,  dinning  long, 
Blown  billowy,  spray  in  thinning  throng. 

I  thrill,  I  play  the  spinning  song. 

In  vain  my  friends,  toiling  up  to  see  me,  urged 
me  to  move,  saying  it  was  not  safe  for  me  to  live 
there  alone.  I  never  felt  lonely.  If  not  playing  or 
reading,  I  had  my  reveries.  In  these,  since  living 
here,  the  same  scenes  came  again  and  again,  as 
if  people  sitting  by  me  had  always  the  same 
thoughts  which  I  grew  to  know,  as  my  husband 
and  I  from  long  companionship  read  each  oth 
er's  minds.  I  saw  granite  quays,  a  vast  city  of 
miles  of  straight  lines,  utterly  flat;  against  its  pale 
sky  minarets  and  domes  of  pink  and  gray,  as  of 
great  Babylon  blushing  into  view  through  the 
mist  of  time.  Was  I  looking  through  telescope 
at  a  dead  world,  or  was  this  an  immense,  vague, 
dreary  marsh?  A  bog,  snow- weighted  alders  and 
willows  here  and  there,  and  endless  rows  of  stakes 
along  a  plank-road.  Big  moose  with  branching 
antlers,  wolves  shaggy  and  dark,  outlined  against 
a  moon-lit  horizon.  Black  troops  of  ravens  and 

6 


crows,  blown,  upset,  borne  off  helpless  in  zigzag 
trailing  through  sheets  of  storm  like  a  fall  of 
white  fox  fur.  High  terraces  of  birch  and  maple 
lengthening  into  scattered  pines,  and  yet  fewer 
firs ;  then  the  silence  of  centuries  felt  under  the 
copper  moon,  beside  the  rivers  of  molten  silver 
of  a  polar  night.  Sledge,  barge,  caravan.  A  lonely 
ship  becalmed  upon  her  tremulous  reflection 
countless  fathoms  below,  white  upon  the  dark 
ness  of  night,  with  stars  glancing  amid  the  rig 
ging.  A  vessel  rolling  with  slanting  spar  and 
swelling  canvas,  flying  through  the  foam  of  a 
wild  wash  leaping  windward.  A  knot  of  sailor- 
faces,  lowering  and  heavily  lined,  swaying  with 
the  bound  of  the  ship  and  showing  by  fitful  light 
of  a  swinging  lamp  below  deck.  An  island  with 
tufted  tree-tops,  and  beach  so  white  as  to  dazzle. 


The  second  time  I  heard  it  with  quick  remem 
brance.  An  old  French  sea-song  which  Richepin 
calls  that  master-piece  of  an  unkown,  a  revela 
tion  of  man  -and  high  soul-tides;  the  words  are 
few,  the  notes  but  five,  the  refrain  only  traderi 

1 


tra  lanlaire  et  trouhula,  yet,  as  he  says,  all  the  sea, 
the  breath  of  space,  cries  from  wrecks,  the  mirth 
and  the  terror  of  the  sailor's  hard  life  are  there, 
and  heard  at  sunset  it  has  the  melancholy  gran 
deur  of  an  evocation  of  Night.  How  often  my 
husband  and  I  had  together  listened  to  it,  the 
favorite  chantey  of  a  French  sailor  who  voyaged 
with  him  for  years!  Ah!  that  very  day  the  Rus 
sian  priest  had  read  in  my  face  a  famished  heart. 
Looking  down  upon  the  Latin  Quarter,  with 
its  rows  of  prim  Boston  houses,  its  Mexican  cor" 
ner-stores,  its  French  tiny  conservatory-fronts, 
the  buildings  showing  the  mingling  of  foreign 
elements  in  its  people,  "the  characteristic  Rus 
sian  fleck  of  gold  upon  green"  shows  the  Greek 
church.  I  liked  to  go  there  sometimes,  for  the 
reverent  attitude  of  a  standing  congregation,  the 
priests  in  picturesque  hats  and  brocade  robes, 
upon  carpets  spread  for  them,  the  swinging  cen 
ser,  burning  tapers,  and  chanting  of  the  stately 
music  of  the  fifteenth  century,  allowing  neither 
voice  of  organ  nor  of  woman.  Here  I  listened 
to  a  relic  of  days  of  hiding  in  catacombs,  the 
thrilling  Greater  Compline,  with  its  striking  ef 
fect  of  choirs  upon  opposite  sides  bandying  like 
a  ball  four  exultant  words.  The  choirs  alternate 

8 


through  twenty-six  phrases,  all  ending  in  "God 
is  with  us!"  which  is  at  last  sung  by  the  united 
voices.  It  is  like  hearing  the  earnest  prophet 
Isaiah  himself,  for  his  are  the  words.  Thus  I 
came  to  know  one  of  the  priests,  a  stately  old 
man  whose  look  was  that  of  a  human-faced  bull 
of  Nineveh.  I  like  to  think  I  had  a  share  in  what 
Aivasovky  painted,  that  arrival  of  relief  from 
America  to  the  famine-stricken  Riazan.  By  hard 
work  I  was  able  to  collect  a  large  sum  for  that 
fund.  When,  on  this  day,  I  gave  it  to  the  priest 
he  said,  after  thanking  me : 

"You  have  a  sad  face,  Mrs.  Trevelyan.  Few  of 
us  get  through  this  battle  of  life  unscarred.  I 
have  known  so  many,  so  many  of  the  wounded. 
To  those  who  live  here  for  years  it  is  a  city  of 
haunted  corners,  haunted  not  only  by  our  own 
old  footsteps  and  hopes  that  rose  and  fell  to  their 
beat,  but  by  knowledge  that  here  was  a  suicide, 
there  a  murder,  hither  and  yon  the  vague  "found 
dead."  You  look  like  a  Russian  friend  of  years 
ago.  It  is  one  of  those  chance  resemblances  of 
face,  or  figure,  or  voice,  that  are  so  strange  — so 
sweet— so  sad.  For  life  has  its  haunted  corners, 
too,  with  their  own  tragedies.  Bitter  is  a  famine 
of  the  heart!  I  shall  pray  for  your  peace." 

9 


His  lofty,  Mithraic  head-gear  did  not  mar  the 
remains  of  romantic  blond  beauty.  As  I  looked 
at  him  I  wondered  what  heart-break  he  had 
known  or  caused.  He  gave  me  a  costly  icon,  the 
Madonna  and  Child  with  gold-winged  angels 
round  them,  all  the  faces  finely  painted  on  por 
celain  and  silver  arabesques  hiding  the  figures. 

On  my  way  home  I  went  on  the  green  hill 
top.  All  the  southern  portion  of  the  city  was 
shrouded  in  smoke,  it  towered  above  in  the  Af- 
rite  columns  of  the  Arabian  Nights,  it  spread 
low  like  a  tumultuous  ocean,  no  more  of  the 
town  in  sight  than  as  if  the  Last  Hour  had  long 
been  burning  it.  Against  the  east  side  of  the 
Swedenborgian  minister's  hermitage  a  tall  clump 
of  scarlet  passion-flowers  added  its  solemn  leg 
end  to  the  scene.  It  was  a  purple  and  white  one 
I  had  known  running  over  the  door  of  my  east 
ern  home.  The  crown  of  thorns,  sponge,  scourge, 
nails,  and  five  wounds  in  this  bloody  guise  cast 
a  weird  gloom  as  if  I  had  met  the  Witch  of  En- 
dor.  Grave  and  tired  I  turned  homeward.  The 
owner  of  a  fine  house  near  had  gone  abroad,  the 
care-taker,  a  sad  woman  who  had  known  better 
days,  stood  at  the  gate  as  I  passed. 

"I  hate  to  go  in!"  said  she.  "The  house  looks 

10 


bigger  and  darker  and  more  lonesome  every 
night!  How  strange  it  is  that  you  are  never  afraid! 
There  has  been  so  much  crime  here  lately,  too." 

I  said  some  cheering  words  to  her.  When  I 
reached  my  house  I  looked  back;  she  still  stood 
there.  I  thought  I  would  go  over  later  and  keep 
her  company  a  while. 

Alone,  thinking  of  her,  of  the  starving  Rus 
sians,  and  of  the  priest's  words,  an  old  "charm" 
came  into  my  mind,  and  set  me  to  rhyming  an 
appeal,  not  for  myself  alone,  though  worded  so, 
but  meant  as  for  all  stricken  and  despairing. 

THE  RUNE  OF  THE  HEALING 

Come!  forces  of  an  ancient  "healing  charm," 
Begged  of  soft  heart  and  lofty  soul  its  balm. 

Deeper  than  plummets  fall 
It  has  no  limitary, 

In  height  or  breadth  no  thrall: 
Help!  by  the  heart  of  Mary! 
Help!  by  the  soul  of  Paul! 

Aid,  O,  brave  mother-heart,  full  heart  of  Mary, 

For  one  decree  we  know: 
"A  sword  shall  pierce  through  thine  own  soul!"  Nor  vary 

Our  souls,  white  shields,  all  show 

11 


Like  pure  Sir  Galahad's— 
A  red  cross  come  and  go. 

Rossini's  Inflammatus,  wild  appealing, 
Breathes,  fitly,  pathos,  passion,  depth  of  feeling, 
In  keen,  uplifting  ecstasy  revealing 

My  heart  inflamed  for  thee, 

Thy  heart  aglow  for  me! 

Hear  both  mild  reed,  bluff  brass,  imploring,  soaring, 

"I  weep!  I  weep!  I  weep!" 
Ineffable  the  agony  adoring, 

Sigh  upon  sigh  doth  leap, 
Grief  rippling  eddy  spreads, 
The  strings  in  shudder  keep. 
"Because  unloved,  unloved,  goes  Love,  so  tender!" 
Let  me  be  one  with  thee,  Great  Heart— surrender— 
Melt  into  thee— there  let  me  glide— Befriender! 
The  music-tide  at  neap- 
While— in— I —trembling— creep ! 

Kind  Powers  of  overwhelming  awe  and  might! 
Immortal  allies  against  mortal  plight! 

The  ages  cannot  pall 
Confiding  tributary 

That  cries  when  ills  befall: 

12 


Help  !  by  the  heart  of  Mary  ! 
Help!  by  the  soul  of  Paul! 

Aid  me,  high  soul  of  Paul,  illuminating 

The  way  through  dark  and  mire. 
Soul  of  Initiate,  irradiating 

Cheer  from  Eternal  Fire. 

Like  pure  Sir  Galahad's, 

Thy  strength  can  never  tire. 
Thou  great  Intelligences  close  beholding, 
Thine  things  unseen,  and  the  unknown,  unfolding 
All  mysteries  that  life  and  death  are  moulding, 

To  thee  naught  can  be  dire, 

Thy  fervor  I  desire. 

Of  vast  depths  open  to  thy  thought's  entreating 
What  daring  hints  are  thine, 

Impassioned  mystic!  "Grace  and  peace"  thy  greeting, 
For  to  thy  wisdom  fine 
Move  with  commingling  threads 
The  earthly  and  divine. 

Thy  meditation  as  a  planet  beaming, 

Thy  intuition  like  a  meteor  streaming, 

Thy  revelation  light  from  Heaven  gleaming, 
Let  faith  and  hope  combine 
With  love,  the  greatest,  mine! 

13 


Heart 
That  grieved  and  pitieth  even  passing  smart— 

Soul 
Caught  up  into  wide  vision  of  the  whole— 

Hark  to  the  eager  call 
From  life  but  fragmentary 

To  love  fulfilling  all: 
Help!  by  the  heart  of  Mary! 

Help!  by  the  soul  of  Paul! 

\ 

I  went  to  a  window,  thinking  about  going  to 
cheer  the  care-taker,  and  the  sunset  kept  me 
there.  The  usual  bands  of  rose  and  turquoise  of 
our  twilight  horizon  were  not  to  be  seen;  the 
whole  sky  was  dappled  in  pink  as  often  by  day 
in  white.  The  meaning  of  the  low-hanging 
smoke  was  shown.  The  air  was  in  a  tumult  of 
the  strange  symbolism  which  seems  to  reveal 
personality,  showing  broken  rainbow,  fallen 
castle,  ruined  bridge  in  the  sky  before  a  storm. 
Here  were  glimpses  of  palaces,  churches,  mon 
asteries  as  of  the  Kremlin  esplanade.  None  of 
the  sadness  of  Gothic  art,  with  its  vain  upward 
reaching,  but  the  true  romance  of  Muscovite 
architecture,  all  its  wild  caprices  of  blue,  red,  and 
apple-green,  of  rose-in-bloom  and  lily-in-bud 

14 


bell-towers,  gilded  spires  and  cupolas,  rococo  and 
Byzantine  joined,  like  fantastic  freaks  of  frost,  and 
here  and  there  were  touches  of  snow.  There  was 
Frederick  the  Great's  room,  coated  with  amber, 
the  raised  parts  translucent;  here  the  famous  pave 
ment  of  agates.  Lovely  letters  of  the  Russian  al 
phabet,  in  Greek  attitudes,  drifted  in  line,  like 
the  decorative  frieze  in  Oriental  palaces.  Amid  a 
crowd  of  half-revealed  figures,  the  chief  one,  in 
Byzantine  style,  three  times  the  height  of  others, 
even  seemed  to  carry  the  long  sword  of  Paul. 


-  & 


f»>f(* 
LET 


C  • 


The  third  time,  the  name  flashed  upon  me,  the 
Complaint  of  the  Three  Mariners.  Close  by  came 
men's  voices  in  cooing,  sputtering  Russ.  Sailors 
often  climed  up  the  hill  to  look  at  the  sea,  as 
actors  enjoy  the  theatre. 
Now,  the  words  came  back  to  me: 

"We  were  two,  we  were  three, 
We  were  three  mariners 

ofGroix." 

When  I  answered  a  knock  at  my  door  five  un 
known  Russians,  sailors,  by  their  bronzed  faces 

15 


and  the  dress  of  three  of  them,  stood  bowing  be 
fore  me. 

"Mrs.  Trevelyan,"  said  the  handsome  leader, 
a  haughty  Pole  in  fur  pelisse  and  cap,  "my  name 
is  Vladimir  Stroganoff.  I  am  the  supercargo  of 
the  Stormy  Petrel.  We  know  of  your  interest  in 
Russia  and  call  to  pay  our  respects." 

The  second,  a  fine-looking  gentleman,  wore  a 
blue  coat  with  gold  buttons,  a  gold  plate  on  the 
shoulder  with  raised  crown  and  stars  and  a  num 
ber,  and  a  very  white  flat-topped  cap.  He  said :  "I 
am  Boris  Volokhoff,  formerly  of  the  Russian 
navy;  later,  master  of  the  Jolly  Polly." 

How  could  a  master-mariner's  widow  refuse? 
I  thought  they  knew  the  priest.  I  let  them  in. 

The  third  was  a  big,  clumsy  man  of  over-bear 
ing  way,  with  a  whisky-bottle  sticking  out  of  his 
pocket,  outlined  through  his  old  blue  boat-cloak 
with  a  look  of  hoar  frost  upon  it,  the  salt  of  what 
far  seas!  "I  am  Dmitri  Dmitrivitch,  second  mate 
of  the  Stormy  Petrel,"  he  blustered."!  want  to  say 
to  you,  Mrs.  Trevelyan,  you  are  the  one  woman 
in  ten  that  we  Russians  say  has  a  soul!" 

The  other  two  were  in  sailor  suits.  The  fourth 
was  a  wiry  man,  with  onyx  eyes  and  the  indrawn 
gaze  of  the  wizard  Finns;  his  hair  was  like  Fin- 

16 


land  granite,  reddish  speckled  with  gray;  he  wore 
ear-rings.  On  his  shoulder,  also  bowing  to  me, 
perched  a  tiny  monkey,  as  if  his  familiar. 

He  and  the  boy  bowed  first  to  the  icon.  Then 
he  said:  "I  am  Alexis  Prayrafsky ;  and  this  boy," 
motioning  toward  the  last  one/ 'is  Ivan  Bitia- 
gofsky,  both  of  us  seafaring  men,  sailor  and  cabin- 
boy  of  the  Stormy  Petrel." 

The  boy  was  a  sad-faced  Kalmuck,wearing  one 
big  ear-ring.  He  handed  me  some  flowers.  The 
monkey  hurried  down  to  present  one  to  me  and 
dashed  back  up  his  master's  arm. 

"The  castor-bean  tree  in  your  garden,"  said  the 
captain,"  looks  like  an  old  friend.  My  father  had 
a  plantation  of  it." 

"It  pleases  us,"  said  the  supercargo,  "to  find 
here  our  petunias,  marigolds,  daisies,  verbenas, 
red  poppies  and  thyme." 

"Have  you  been  here  long?"  I  asked. 

"Well— yes— some  time,  said  he;  "we  are— so 
to  speak— marooned." 

I  concluded  they  were  changing  ships. 

'  'You  find  this  a  contrast  to  the  bigness  and  flat 
ness  of  St.  Petersburg,"  said  I. 

"There's  nothing  here  like  St.  Isaac's;  that  cost 
millions,"the  boy  burst  forth."Togild  the  copper 

17 


of  the  cupola  fourteen  bushels  of  English  ducats 
were  melted  down.  Fourteen  bushels  of  ducats! 
Our  Nevsky  shrine  is  a  pyramid  fifteen  feet  high, 
a  ton  and  a  half  of  pure  silver!" 

"You  would  like  Gautier's  words  about  St. 
Petersburg,"  said  I,— "a  city  of  gold  upon  a  hori 
zon  of  silver." 

"Our  sky,"  said  the  supercargo,  "is  never  sap 
phire;  it  is  like  opal  or  the  chill  blue  of  steel." 

"Always,"  added  the  captain, "like  late  after 
noon  on  your  Atlantic  coast." 

"There  are  times  when  this  looks  like  a  foreign 
seaport,"  I  said,  "when  the  water  seems  to  have 
risen  and  crowded  the  city  under  the  hill ;  there 
are  views  from  these  corners  satisfying  as  food, 
like  the  eastward  glimpse  from  Jackson  andTay- 
lor  streets." 

"The  water  is  always  threatening,"  said  the 
Finn,  "to  carry  out  the  Mexican  monk's  old  pro 
phecy  of  this  city's  drowning." 

"There  are  none  of  these  illusions  on  the  stern 
coast  of  the  prim  Puritans  and  their  descend 
ants,"  said  the  captain. "Mirage  belongs  to  a  dif 
ferent  class  of  people." 

"An  atmosphere  of  miracle,"!  said, "suits  a 
city  of  a  saint." 

18 


"We  have  no  begging  friars  in  Russia,"  the 
mate  boomed  at  me  in  a  hoarse  voice.  "It  is  not 
your  St.  Francis  that  interests  Russians,  but  your 
bear,  the  favorite  animal  of  our  St.  Sergius." 

The  boy  had  run  to  awindow."Look!"  he  cried. 
"A  shooting  star!  Come  to  fetch  souls!" 

I  saw  a  glance  of  meaning  going  from  one  to 
another  till  all  five  had  caught  it. 

"One  of  our  superstitions,"  said  the  captain. 

I  brought  forward  my  samovar  and  made  tea, 
serving  it  in  their  fashion  in  glasses,  with  lemon 
and  big  lumps  of  sugar  for  them  to  hold  and 
nibble  now  and  then,  the  monkey  joining  in  this. 
The  Kalmuck  slyly  spilled  drops  towards  the 
north,  south,  east,  and  west,  like  the  tribute  paid 
by  the  New  Mexican  Indians. 

"I  used  to  wish,"  said  I,  "that  my  husband 
would  go  to  Russia  to  bring  me  beautiful  things 
made  there." 

They  glanced  at  each  other.  Presently  the  su 
percargo  drew  from  his  pocket  and  showed  me 
bracelets  of  globes  of  crystal  and  of  amethyst. 
The  Finn  had  a  spoon  carved  by  monks  with  the 
text:  "Seek  by  prayer  and  supplication."  Strog- 
anoff  brought  out  a  necklace  of  rose  tourmalines 
set  with  diamonds.  The  sailor  showed  turquoises 

19 


from  the  old  mines  of  Nishapur ,  dozens  set  in  rolls 
of  wax.  The  mate's  boat-cloak  had  hidden  bolts 
of  tissues  woven  with  gold  and  silver  threads, 
and  slippers  of  gay  morocco  covered  with  gold 
embroidery.  Volokhoff  showed  a  brooch  of  ex 
quisite  niello  work,  and  then  a  Moldavian  wo 
man's  necklace  of  gold  coins.  The  monkey  darted 
upon  their  glitter  and  ran  home  proudly  wear 
ing  it. 

I  vainly  tried  to  buy  some  of  the  finery.  They 
beamed  upon  me  with  smiling  refusal  that  showed 
their  gleaming  teeth.  "No,  no;  not  these/'they 
said,  and  put  them  away. 

"I  would  like  to  show  you  some  Russian  orna 
ments  a  neighbor  has,"  I  said;  "we  cannot  tell 
the  inscriptions." 

I  started  towards  the  door.There  was  a  gener 
al  rising.  I  found  myself  surrounded  and  got 
back  to  my  chair,  but  in  the  gentlest  manner,  by 
my  big-waisted,  baby-eyed  callers. 

"No," said  the  captain;  "let  us  look  at  your 


curios.1' 


They  politely  feigned  interest  in  what  could 
not  have  been  new  to  them :  costly  shawls  of  palm- 
leaf  covered  Cashmere,  and  heavily  embroidered 
crape,  of  which,  with  Flemish  guipure  lace,  I  had 

20 


made  portieres  and  mantel-drapery;  French  trifles 
in  porcelain,  gold,  and  ivory;  crystal  and  gold 
perfume -caskets,  a  fan  that  was  Pompadour's, 
some  Sevres  cups  and  saucers;  rare  old  amber  Sat- 
suma  jars;  huge  polar-bearskins;  wide-spread  ant 
lers;  carved  tusks,  odd  bronzes,  Parian  statuettes 
and  groups;  an  emu's  egg  of  palest  green,  a  large 
fan  of  white  peacock  feathers,  a  carved  teakwood 
table  from  India;  a  cherry-stone  bracelet  bearing 
three  years  of  Chinese  carving;  bits  of  the  Con 
stitution,  the  Bounty,  and  the  first  Atlantic  cable; 
from  Corea  a  carved  tortoise-shell  necklace  and 
box  topped  with  dragons  and  a  little  ivory  god 
that  was  never  to  be  laid  on  its  back  or  it  would 
bring  ill-luck  on  the  one  who  gave  it  to  my  hus 
band, —  her  family  had  owned  it  for  three  cen 
turies;  things  collected  through  many  years,  num 
berless,  of  varying  worth,  but  some  of  extreme 
value. 

The  Russians  vied  with  each  other  in  trying  to 
please  me  with  stories.  The  mate  told  of  trees  of 
seaweed,  mountain-ranges  of  coral,  and  great 
grottoes  of  amber.  The  supercargo  named  treas 
ures  of  the  Troitsa  monastery:  coats  of  mail 
wrought  with  verses  from  the  Koran;  the  chain 
of  the  first  of  the  Romanoffs,  every  link  with  an 

21 


engraved  prayer  and  one  of  the  Czar's  titles, 
ninety-nine  in  all;  Gospels  encrusted  with  gems 
and  clasped  by  cameos;  diamond-set  chalices; 
and  brocade  dalmatics  worked  with  flowers  in 
precious  stones.  The  captain  mentioned  the  Af 
rican  trees  of  silver-gray,  where  the  gray  parrots 
roost  unseen. 

The  boy  told  of  the  Granovitaia  Palata,  the 
Facet  Palace,  the  whole  inside  known  as  the 
Gilded  Room,  its  gold  walls  covered  with  dark 
paintings  and  legends  in  the  fine  old  Sclavonic 
letters,  the  very  height  of  the  dazzling,  gloomy, 
and  imposing.  "It  is  like  walking  in  a  story 
book,"  he  said. 

They  were  all  pleased  with  a  pastel  an  artist 
friend  had  made  for  lines  of  mine,  which  he  had 
framed  beneath  it. 

A  FOG 

Dim,  shifting  shape,  the  buildings  loom  afar,— 
Is  it  a  driving  snowstorm  held  in  air? 

Almost  I  hear  the  sleigh-bells'  beating  jar 
White  silence  sound  but  faintly  can  impair 
In  scene  like  crystal  ball  of  icy  glare, 

For  Memory,  mystic  seer  its  visions  are! 

Dim,  shifting  shape  the  buildings  loom  afar,— 
Is  it  a  snowfall  spellbound  in  the  air? 

22 


I  watch  o'er  tufted  palm  the  evening-star. 

Then  aerial  currents  drifting,  duping,  snare, 
The  wailing  fog-horn  warns  of  harbor-bar, 

On  far-off  frosty  road  I  seem  to  fare. 
Dim,  shifting  shape,  the  buildings  loom  afar,— 

Is  it  a  film  of  snowflakes  charmed  in  air? 

"  A  fog  is  as  mysterious  as  beautiful/'  said  the 
captain.  "There  is  a  wide  difference  in  the  still 
ness  inside  and  outside.  It  has  interspaces  where 
sound  never  penetrates;  this  causes  wreck  even 
near  fog-whistles." 

"In  the  next  house,"  said  I,  "they  have  a  pastel 
much  like  this,  but  larger,  by  the  same  artist;  let 
me  borrow  it  to  show  you." 

Again  I  had  almost  reached  the  hall.  Then  the 
supercargo  was  politely  leading  me  across  the 
room,  and  the  others  were  between  me  and  the 
door. 

"Do  not  take  the  trouble,"  they  were  all  gently 
saying. 

"Let  the  Finn  show  you  some  of  his  sorcery," 
said  the  captain. 

At  once  the  sailor's  arms  were  waving,  and  the 
air  was  full  of  flying  cards  which  returned  to  him 
and  were  caught  by  monkey  as  well  as  by  master. 

23 


Through  our  silence  of  watchinghim  there  came 
once  a  sound  like  a  faraway  cry,  and  again  I  saw 
that  meaning  look  go  round.  Stroganoff  begged 
for  music.  I  played  Glinka  and  Rubinstein.  Volo- 
khoff  sang  a  Muscovite  love-song,  a  mingling 
of  joy  and  grief;  a  smothered  fire,  the  southern 
sun  and  northern  gloom.  Dmitrivitch  began  to 
bellow: 

"Five  betel-nut  palms  of  Bombay,"  in  tones 
of  a  fog-horn,  but  was  checked  by  the  Captain. 
Stroganoff  played  strains  of  Tschaikowsky's  pa 
thetic  symphony,  showing  me  the  trombones' 
heart-broken  cries,  dying  away,  one  by  one,  at 
the  close. 

"Like  expiring  torches  at  a  midnight  funeral," 
said  he. 

"Moliere's!"  I  suggested. 

"Juliet's,"  he  said. 

"Why,"  I  asked,  "do  people  speak  as  if  deep 
feeling  could  be  only  in  play  or  song  or  story?" 

"Lord  love  ye,  ma'am!"  roared  the  big  mate, 
"we  could  spin  you  yarns  that  beat  playhouse 
and  book  all  to  tatters." 

"I  should  like  nothing  better,"  said  I. 

"Tell  her,"  said  the  boy,  "about  the  galleon 
foundered  off  Acapulco  with  crusadoes  of  gold, 

24 


chests  of  pieces  of  eight,  wrought  crucifixes  of 
precious  ore,  gold  and  silver  bars,  silks,  spices, 
costly  tea,  chocolate,  and  sweetmeats." 

"I  might  tell  of  fire  at  sea," said  the  captain, 
"or  wild  adventure  on  the  coast  of  Africa,  when 
I  was  in  the  'black  ivory'  trade  and  could  have 
got  one  hundred  blacks  for  one  white  woman." 

"I  could  make  your  blood  run  cold,  Mrs.  Tre- 
velyan,"  shouted  the  great  mate,  "all  about  being 
hemmed  in  by  icebergs,  or  chased  by  sharks." 

"Speak  about  the  Manila  ship,"  the  boy  said, 
"that  had  four  hundred  and  fifty  in  the  crew, 
carried  a  hundred  and  fifty  pirates,  prisoners, 
and  a  three-million-dollar  cargo  of  gold,  satins, 
musk,  jewels,  wines,  and  conserves." 

"I  can  tell  of  St.  Elmo's  lights,"  said  the 
Finn,  "or  of  were- wolves  among  some  wedding 
guests." 

"Tell,"  the  boy  urged,  "about  when  the  pi 
rates  counted  out  five  hundred  and  ninety- nine 
guineas  in  half  and  whole  pieces,  all  of  Queen 
Anne's  time,  yet  fresh  and  delightful  to  feel  of." 

"She  wants  to  hear,"  asserted  the  mate,  posi- 
tively,"about  a  ship  being  ketched  in  the  bottom 
of  a  whirling  blow,  in  pitch  dark,  nothing  left  of 
creation  but  a  hole  of  light  way  up  over  us,  the 

25 


eye  of  the  storm,  we  calls  it,  leering  down  to  see 
how  we  takes  it,  or  how  to  upset  us." 

"I  want  her  to  hear,"  said  the  boy,  "about  the 
three  ships  Dampier  met,  laden  deep  as  they 
could  swim  with  tons  and  tons  of  quince  marma 
lade,  that  would  have  had  eight  hundred  thou 
sand  gold  pieces  only  they  got  wind  of  free 
booters." 

"I  could  make  your  face  as  long  as  a  wet  ham 
mock,  ma'am,"  cried  the  mate,  "about  a  masked 
cap'n,  and  a  lady  made  to  walk  the  plank." 

"Come,  come,"  said  the  supercargo,  "Mrs. 
Trevelyan  is  not  to  get  nervous.  Let  us  tell  her 
our  own  story.  You  begin  it,  captain." 

"That'll  ease  off  a  point  or  so  for  each  man," 
thundered  the  mate, '  'a  five-stranded,  left-handed 
twister!" 

The  captain  began:  "The  Jolly  Polly  was  a 
tramp  vessel,  now  smuggling  opium,  or  musk, 
then  in  the  'black  ivory'  line,  another  time  carry 
ing  pirate's  treasure.  I  need  not  say  what  cruise  I 
was  on  when  we  sighted  a  ship  we  had  several 
times  heard  of  from  vessels  spoken.  They  re 
ported  her  as  'acting  strangely.'  She  carried  a 
distress-signal,  the  reversed  ensign,  and  colors 
that  cried  To  Speak,'  yet  she  was  said  to  run  away 

26 


from  any  attempt  to  reach  her.  When  we  saw 
her  she  carried  fore-sail,  lower  top-sail,  spanker 
and  main-sail  set;  everything  else  was  in  confus 
ion,  as  if  dropped  suddenly.  She  was  painted 
blue,  with  a  fine  red  and  gold  line  her  length, 
and  a  red,  blue  and  gold  figure-head.  The  name 
on  the  stern  read  The  Stormy  Petrel.  She  seemed 
to  wait  for  us,  gently  swaying,  as  if  but  a  mer 
maid's  fan  in  motion,  she  was  so  far  and  small 
to  the  naked  eye.  There  was  no  gleam  from  pol 
ished  brass  and  glass  as  she  moved;  all  looked 
dingy.  As  we  came  up  there  was  no  answer  to 
our  cries.  Nobody  showing  on  deck  to  watch  the 
coming  of  the  boat  I  sent,  I  had  curiosity  enough 
to  set  off  myself  in  a  second  boat.  There  was 
no  one  on  board  the  Petrel.  We  could  find  no 
trace  of  hurt;  she  had  not  struck  a  reef  or  been 
run  into;  stern,  sternpost,  and  rudder  were  all 
right.  Seamen's  chests  and  some  of  their  clothes 
left  about  were  dry.  They  had  not  met  very  heavy 
weather.  A  little  bottle  of  vanilla  on  the  cook's 
table  had  not  been  upset;  the  pitch  in  the  water 
ways  had  not  started;  hull,  masts,  and  yards  were 
perfect;  there  was  not  a  crack  in  the  grimed  paint 
of  the  deck-house.  The  deck  was  smeared  every 
where  with  old  stains  of  blood.  It  was  flush- 

27 


decked;  you  looked  from  the  taffrail  along  a  plat 
form  whose  length  was  broken  only  by  skylights, 
the  forward  windlass,  and  once  by  the  galley 
long-boat,  but  that  and  all  the  boats  were  gone. 
The  cabin  was  large,  panelled  in  pale  blue  and 
red  and  gold,  and  light  with  a  big  stern  window. 
There  was  a  woman's  long  black  cloak  here,  a 
lace  handkerchief  and  carved  ivory  fan  there.  A 
table  under  the  lamp  bore  books  and  papers.  A 
woman's  diary,  made  of  loose  sheets,  had  dates 
of  months  after  the  last  entry  in  the  log,  but  now 
weeks  old.  It  was  merely  bits  about  the  weather 
and  her  being  all  alone.  There  was  a  piece  of  po 
etry  in  the  same  writing  on  a  sheet  of  paper  fallen 
to  the  floor,  where  there  was  also  a  small  square 
of  paper,  folded  once,  with  the  word  'Act!'  on 
it,  in  a  man's  writing.  The  captain's  chronometer, 
sextant,  and  charts  were  gone.  No  bills  of  lading, 
no  manifest,  were  found.  The  cargo  had  been 
taken  away,  but  small  wedges  of  gold  were  scat 
tered  about,  proving  it  had  been  a  treasure  ship. 
Why  it  had  been  deserted  was  a  riddle  we  did  not 
think  we  could  ever  solve,  but  in  the  hope  of 
salvage-claim  we  took  the  Petrel  in  tow. 

"Some  days  later  we  all  heard,  one  dark  night, 
the  whistling  of  a  Russian  air,  but  could  not  tell 

28 


where  it  came  from.  The  crew  thought  the  Petrel 
might  be  haunted;  but  I  was  sure  the  sound  came 
from  another  side,  and  long  hung  over  the  star 
board  rail  listening.  It  came  and  went,  a  fine,  loud 
whistling  of  a  beautiful  old  tune,  slowly  louder 
and  louder,  till  the  man  in  the  forecastle  cried : 

'"It's  right  off  the  bow,  sir;  but  I  don't  see 
anything.' 

"Again  and  again  it  rose  and  fell,  with  a  hope 
less  sadness  in  it  that  curdled  my  blood.  I  ordered 
the  Polly  stopped  and  had  rockets  sent  up.  At  last 
these  showed  a  little  boat  drifting  close  by,  with 
a  boy  sitting  in  it  and  whistling,  whistling,  with 
no  sign  of  seeing  or  hearing  us.  I  had  a  boat  low 
ered  for  a  mate  and  some  rowers,  and  had  port 
fires  burning  to  show  them  how  to  find  the  boy 
and  come  back  to  us.When  the  boy  was  hoisted 
onboard  he  cried: 

'  'The  cap'n  and  the  second  mate!  Why  haven't 
I  come  across  'em?' 

"He  was  dazed  and  could  hardly  be  made  to 
eat  and  drink  what  was  brought  him,  and  soon 
fell  into  the  dead  sleep  of  exhaustion.  To  all  our 
questions  his  only  reply  was  once  to  exclaim: 

'"O!  I  was  so  afraid  of  drifting  ashore  and 
finding  Chocolate  Charley  and  his  gang!'" 

29 


The  captain  rose,  and  saying  "Allow  me,"  car 
ried  a  light  from  the  mantelpiece  to  a  table.  It 
was  the  third  time  he  had  moved  the  lamps;  he 
had  them  now  near  windows.  I  concluded  that 
his  nerves  took  whims. 

"Iwishlhadn't!''criedtheboy."lwishlhadn't! 
But  how  could  I  know?  And  I  was  so  afeard!  It 
was  blessed  hard  on  me,  too!  When  I  see  the  Jolly 
Polly  I  thought  it  was  only  one  of  my  dreams 
till  I  see  it  was  tugging  another  one  that  lurches 
and  peeps  from  behind  just  as  if  on  the  lookout 
for  me,  but  trying  not  to  have  me  find  out  it  was 
the  Stormy  Petrel.  I  was  in  one  of  my  queer  spells. 
I  couldn't  help  myself.  I  let  'em  take  me  on  board. 
When  they  all  crowds  round,  asking  this  and 
that,  at  first  I  says: 

"  'I  don't  know  about  that  ship.' 

"But  I  used  to  sit  and  stare  at  it  so  that  Cap'n 
Volokhoff  says  at  last: 

"You  do  know  about  the  Petrel;  I  see  it  in 
your  face.' 

"'Where  is  the  lady?'  says  I,  for  I  was  most 
dead  with  wanting  to  know. 

"There  was  nobody  on  the  Petrel  when  we 
found  it/  says  he. 

"My  heart  was  full;  I  couldn't  see.  I  burst  out 

30 


crying,  and  cried  a  good  while,  for  all  I  had  left 
her  there  alone.  She  was  so  kind,  and  pretty 
enough  forafigure-head,and  I  liked  her  so  much 
till  the  last,  and  then  I  was  only  afeard.  When 
they  sets  us  adrift  in  the  Petrel  we  knowed  it  was 
going  to  be  all  chance  with  us,  but  we  tries  to 
cheer  each  other  up. 

"She  says:  'We  must  meet  some  vessel.' 
'  'We've  got  lots  to  eat,'  says  I. 
'  'We  are  safer  here  than  on  some  island,' says 
she. 

"I  says:  'We've  got  rid  of  Black  Bill's  blue 
mug  and  his  boosy  set.' 

"I  tells  her  fine  pirate-stories,  only  she'd  laugh 
when  I  didn't  see  anything  funny.  She  tells  me 
of  grand  doings  at  court;  soldiers  therewith  big 
diamonds  in  their  epaulets  and  sword-hilts;  ladies 
in  dresses  of  lace  like  a  spider's  web,'  says  she, 
'and  worth  as  much  as  rubies  and  diamonds.' 
She'd  been  to  a  great  ball  the  night  she  come  to 
the  ship. 

"  'I  had  not  gone  home/  says  she,  'when  I  was 
forced  to  hurry  to  the  wharf.  I  had  to  pay  the 
driver  of  a  droski  with  my  lace  over-dress.  It  was 
a  fortune  for  him.' 

"Her  handsome  yellow  satin  she  wears  caught 

31 


up  all  round  over  her  lace-trimmed  skirts,  rather 
tumbled  and  soiled  now.  She  hides  it  all  under 
her  long  cloak,  only  on  deck,  when  it  blowed 
chilly,  she  had  to  wear  my  pea-jacket  and  the 
bo' sun's  sou'wester;  though  that  couldn't  hide  the 
fine  lady.  She  was  good  company  then.  She  tells 
me  about  seeing  nine  bushels  of  pearls  at  the 
Troitsa  monastery,  just  left  over  from  embroidery. 
She'd  been  to  feasts  where  she  had  real  caravan 
tea,  the  ten-dollars-a-pound  kind,  not  hurt  by  sea- 
voyaging;  and  oysters  and  grapes  and  watermel 
on,  brandied  cherries  and  sugar-glazed  filberts ! 

"We  tried  to  forget  where  we  was,  for  we 
couldn't  bear  to  stay  on  deck,  on  account  of  the 
splashes  of  blood,  nor  in  the  cabin— it  was  too 
lonesome.  It  was  hard  to  take  in  that  we  two  was 
there  alone,  after  all  we'd  known  going  on  up 
and  down. 

"  'We  are  going  to  meet  the  Portuguese  carrack 
that  never  come  home,'  says  I,  'with  a  castellated 
stern  rising  into  a  tower  fromher  poop  and  poop- 
royal,  and  in  her  hold  thousands  of  pounds'  worth 
of  gold  and  silver  bars,  ingots,  doubloons  and 
ducats,  gems,  and  minted  money.  That's  the  ship 
you  ought  to  be  on!' 

"It  does  sound  like  'my  ship','  says  she. 

32 


'The  time  come  when  we  didn't  say  much.We 
watches  for  days  a  smooth  swell,  most  too  lazy 
to  go  by  us,  and  the  slow  sway  across  the  deck  of 
the  shadow  of  the  mizzen-mast,  like  a  lullaby, 
listens  to  the  straining  of  bulkheads,  clicking  of 
doors  loosely  hooked,  and  the  flapping  of  the 
canvas,  till  we  feels  we  might  as  well  be  dead  and 
under  hatches.  Then  a  breeze  would  send  us 
skimming  like  the  gulls  slanting  against  the 
wind  or  hanging  in  the  air  round  us,  for  the 
lady  makes  me  scatter  feed  on  deck  for  'em. 
When  we'd  feel  the  stir  and  rush  we'd  cheer  up 
and  watch  the  snow  of  foam  behind  us  and  see 
things  in  it,  same  as  you  can  looking  in  the  fire. 
She  see  flower- wreaths,  hearts,  and  stars  mostly, 
but  I  could  make  out  fortress  and  cannon  and 
smoke  of  battle.  Dear  heart!  howafeard  she  was 
of  a  stiff  blow,  when  the  rigging  screamed  and 
the  mast-heads  leaned  over,  and  we  has  to  steady 
ourselves  by  rail  or  belaying-pin.  Once  or  twice 
in  many  weeks  we  see  ships  creep  out  and  in 
the  haze  on  the  horizon.  I  hoists  the  colors  To 
Speak'  and  a  brand  new  white  ensign  I  finds  in 
the  color  chest. 

'  To  show  'em  we  ain't  pirates/ 1  says.  'When 
they  ketches  sight  of  that  the  first  mate  with  a 

33 


telescope  will  run  up  on  the  main-royal  yard,  the 
second  mate  with  a  telescope  will  climb  up  on 
the  fore-royal  yard,  and  the  cap'n  will  be  trum 
peting: 'Ahoy'!* 

"She  laughs  and  says:  'Think  of  their  surprise 
to  find  after  all  that  hurrah,  only  a  woman  and 
a  boy.' 

"But  the  vessels  we  see  gets  swallowed  in  fog 
or  we  did.  And  the  Portuguese  carrack,  too! 
After  we'd  been  hurried  along  for  days  by  short 
winds,  or  stopped  as  if  anchored  for  weeks,  she 
gets  downhearted.  I  knowed  by  her  eyes  that  she 
cries  a  good  deal,  but  she  never  let  me  see  her 
doing  of  it.  She  knowed  it  was  dirty  luck  for  me, 
too.  She  asks  me  about  my  folks  and  makes  me 
tell  her  things  she  could  say  to  'em  in  case  she 
ever  got  home  and  I  never  did.  I  wants  to  do 
the  same  for  her,  but  she  says: 

"It  is  better  for  you  yourself  that  you  should 
not  name  me.  There  is  only  one  I  want  to  reach. 
I  don't  know  where.' 

"One  day  I  see  her  leaning  over  the  bulwark 
rail  and  goes  up  to  her.  She  was  looking  where 
the  ensign  shadowed  a  white  streak  under  the 
stern  that  made  me  think  of  a  burial  at  sea  and 
the  body  sinking. 

34 


"  'Haul  it  down!'  she  says,  with  a  shiver.  'It  is 
too  like  a  shroud!' 

"So  I  does,  but  I  hated  to  lose  such  a  big  sig 
nal.  Then  she  takes  spells  of  walking,  walking, 
walking  sometimes  all  night  above  and  below, 
all  over  the  ship;  though,  while  she  was  in  her 
right  mind,  she  was  shy  of  the  bloody  deck.  I  put 
off  and  put  off  trying  to  clean  it  up;  it  turned  my 
stomach  to  think  of  it.  After  a  while  she  wouldn't 
eat  nor  talk,  but  sits  all  the  time  writing,  writing. 
I  got  afeard  of  her  big,  wild  eyes  and  crazy  ways, 
and  when  I  see  a  branch  with  green  leaves  on  the 
water,  I  says  to  myself: 

"We  can't  be  far  from  some  island;  I'll  risk 
it!'  I'd  always  been  fond  of  sitting  in  the  cap'n's 
gig  to  watch  the  foam  and  spray  about  the  rud 
der  when  we  gets  a  breeze,  and  she  didn't  mind 
my  going  there  now.  Little  by  little,  I  lays  in 
provisions,  and  one  night  when  she  was  standing 
behind  the  interlacing  of  the  main  shrouds,  look 
ing  ahead,  I  sets  to  work  and  slowly,  one  end  at 
at  a  time, gets  the  gig  lowered.  Right  you  are! 
The  night  was  mild,  the  lady  had  no  wrap,  her 
hair  was  dressed  very  fine,  and  she  was  a-letting 
down  her  long  train.  The  next  minute  I  knowed 
she'd  be  a-pacing  to  and  fro,  a-singing  a  polonaise, 

35 


and  a-playing  she  was  at  the  ball.  I  seen  her  do  it 
lots  of  times.  Over  and  over  I'd  put  off  going, 
and  maybe  I'd  stayed  this  time  if  she  hadn't  set 
up  her  forlorn  piping.  A  polonaise  is  just  a  high 
swagger  of  a  march,  no  more  dance  of  the  horn 
pipe  sort  than  standing  still  is,  and  when  the  mus 
ic  is  sad,  like  the  'Oginski,'  it  is  all  sobs  and  a 
catching  of  the  breath.  So  I  drops  gently  after  the 
gig,  and  lets  the  ship  move  off  with  naked  davits 
and  hanging  tackle.  I  hates  to  lose  the  Petrel;  as 
I  looks  up  at  it  the  spars  was  tossing  against  the 
moon  as  if  it  knowed,  from  flying  jib-boom  end 
to  the  taffrail,  the  whole  yarn,  and  was  uneasy 
as  I  was.  I  was  sorry  right  off  when  I  couldn't  get 
back.  A  wind  rose  and  carried  me  away.  I  lost 
sight  of  the  ship  and  found  no  island.  I  felt  it 
serves  me  right  for  deserting  the  poor  lady.  Some 
nights,  when  the  sky  was  a  mass  of  stars,  there 
was  liberty  and  brightness  of  morning,  but  the 
others!  Folks  on  shore  don't  know  what  the  dark 
means;  at  sea  it  is  thick  black,  like  velvet.  Some 
times  all  the  top  of  the  water  would  flicker  and 
gleam,  as  if  thinking  about  me  or  trying  to  tell 
me  something.  One  black  night  there  comes  up 
a  wet  squall,  and  the  lightning  looks  to  be  slant 
ing  right  after  me.  I  was  too  scared  to  do  any- 

36 


thing  at  night,  but  on  a  calm  day,  though  I  didn't 
know  what  way  to  go,  I  used  to  row  and  row  till 
I  was  dead  tired  and  didn't  care  what  come.  I 
was  lonesome  for  the  lady,  and  I  missed  the  noise 
of  big  sails  beating  the  masts.  I  knowed  no  ves 
sel  would  sight  me,  for  often  a  haze  shut  the  hori 
zon  in  to  within  a  few  yards,  and  in  clear  weather 
my  boat  on  the  big  blue  made  about  as  much 
show  as  a  bird.  I  found  I'd  only  divided  a  clove 
hitch,  the  lady  and  I  had  each  now  one  to  our 
selves.  So  I  goes  on,  day  after  day,  night  after  night, 
never  knowed  when  some  big  monster  might 
knock  my  boat  over  and  drag  me  down,  and 
soon  I  had  nothing  left  to  eat.  One  night  the  full 
moon  hangs  like  a  big  gold-piece  in  the  sky,  and 
I  could  seem  to  hear  the  lady  singing  the  Ukrain 
ian  love-song,  'The  Moon.'  I  couldn't  bear  to 
hear  her— it  was  sweet,  but  just  like  storm-clouds 
coming  up,  it  made  me  want  to  cry — yet  the  time 
had  come  when  I  begins  to  whistle  it  for  com 
pany  every  night.  I  got  forgetful  spells,  when  I 
didn't  know  how  I  come  to  be  there  alone,  and, 
by  the  powers!  each  day  and  night  seemed  a  year 
long.  It  was  a  rum  start  to  find  the  Jolly  Polly 
had  got  me,  but  the  queerest  of  all  was  when  the 
lookout  soon  after  sighted  an  island,  so  far  away, 

37 


shining  and  sparkling,  and  the  water  pounding 
so  white  on  the  reef  I  thinks  of  a  bit  of  green 
glass  dropped  in  snow.  The  air  was  so  clear,  like 
looking  through  a  telescope,  we  see  a  man  come 
to  the  shore  long  afore  we  gets  nigh.  The  sun 
was  like  a  ball  of  fire  sinking  into  an  ocean  as  of 
blood ;  there  was  a  red  glare  on  the  whitening 
breakers,  on  clouds  of  sea-birds,  on  the  dazzle  of 
green  and  white,  and  on  that  figure  standing  on 
the  beach,  as  if  he'd  sent  for  us,  the  man  the  crew 
of  the  Petrel  thought  had  danger  in  him,  they  says: 

"  'He  and  his  shadow  is  the  worst  cards  in  the 
pack!' 

"It  was  calm  as  if  he  had  been  tying  up  the 
winds  in  knots  of  his  handkerchief.  Here  was  the 
Petrel  coming  right  back  where  she'd  been  set 
adrift,  and  there  stood,  by  the  men's  yarns,  a  Finn 
who  could  sail  a  ship  in  contrary  winds. 

"The  Knave  of  Spades,'  they  calls  him,  'and 
his  shadow,  the  Nine  Spot!' 

"There  was  a  little  imp  standing  beside  him, 
no  bigger  than  a  sprit-sail  knot,  and  I  says  to 
myself: 

"That's  the  Ace!'" 

Here  the  restless  boy  left  the  room,  running 
to  the  front  door  and  back.  I  thought  he  feared 

38 


the  Finn  might  not  like  his  words;  still  he  had 
been  dodging  out  and  in  all  the  evening. 

"When  I  see  two  ships  driving  tandem/'  said 
the  sailor,  "and  as  they  draws  near  makes  out 
that  the  hind  one  is  the  Petrel,  I  was  struck  all 
of  aheap. 

"'Shiver  my  timbers!'  says  I  to  the  monkey.  If 
it  ain't  the  whole  blessed  ship,  from  cross-trees 
to  kelson!' 

"And  the  monkey  takes  off  M  cap  and  scratches 
his  head  and  smooths  his  chin,  and  tries,  too,  to 
think  it  all  out. 

"I  see  the  boy  on  deck  of  the  Polly,  but  no  sign 
of  the  lady.  They  sends  a  boat  off  for  me,  and 
when  I  climbs  aboard  the  vessel,  here  is  Ivan 
ready  to  square  off  at  me. 

"'Do  you  know  each  other?'  says  the  captain. 

"  'It's  the  Knaveof  Spades!  He  has  got  us  back,' 
cries  the  boy.  The  Petrel  was  here  and  he  cut 
the  hawser.' 

'  'What  could  you  see  in  the  darkness?'  says  I. 
It  was  Chocolate  Charley,  'cause  he  suspects  I 
wants  to  get  aboard  and  leave  'em.' 

"  'Where  is  he?  Where  are  they  all?'  says  Ivan. 

"  'Gone  to  the  bottom  or  come  out  t'other  side 
of  the  world!'  says  I.  'Black  Bill  give  me  a  maul- 

39 


ing,  and  they  clears  out  when  I  knowed  nothing. 
Where's  the  lady?' 

"  'Gone/  says  he,  and  turns  his  back. 

"The  Petrel  had  a  fiery  set  of  Malays,  Portu 
guese,  Chileans,  and  a  lot  of  half-breeds.  Some 
of 'em  had  been  ugly  and  put  in  irons;  that  crip 
ples  us  by  want  of  hands,  and  a  big  blow  drives 
us  leagues  and  leagues  out  of  our  course.  They 
lays  it  all  to  the  Finn.  One  dark  night  I  was  at 
the  wheel,  but  I  knows  what's  going  on,  that  the 
first  mate,  who  was  on  watch,  is  being  gagged 
and  bound.  It  wa'n't  no  use  for  me  to  try  to  stop  it. 

'  'Black  Bill,  one  of  the  Malays,  says  to  me :  'Old 
Jack  of  Spades,  just  keep  off!  You  might  have 
put  one  of  your  spells  on  'em  and  saved  us  this 
trouble.  But  we'll  keep  you  to  whistle  up  winds 
for  us.' 

"Chocolate  Charley,  a  quadroon,  and  Gentle 
man  George,  a  Portuguese,  who  might  have  been 
an  earl,  he  was  so  high  and  mighty  and  lazy,  gets 
the  cap'n  and  second  mate  on  deck  by  some  trick, 
and  then  has  four  men  seize  each  one. 

"  'Now,'  they says,'we've  taken  the  ship!  You've 
got  to  agree  to  navigate  her  where  we  say,  or 
we'll  cast  you  adrift.' 

"The  cap'n  was  pluck  clear  through.  He  swears 

40 


blue  streaks  and  thunders  out:  1  scorn  to  even 
answer  you!' 

"The  mate  loves  a  fight,  and  he  sets  to  and  trips 
up  two  of  the  men  holding  him,  and  punches 
another  on  the  head  and  doubles  up  the  fourth 
by  a  dig  in  the  ribs. 

'"Look  out  for  squalls,  cap'n!'  he  says.  I'll  at 
tend  to  your  men  now/  And  he  steers  for  'em. 

"There  was  an  orderly  set  on  board,  too;  they 
gets  at  the  arms-chest,  as  well  as  the  others,  and 
comes  a-running  up  and  takes  sides  agin  Choc 
olate  Charley  and  his  men,  and  so  here  was  as 
pretty  a  fight  as  ever  you  see,  bang  of  pistol  and 
clash  of  cutlass  in  a  pitched  battle  right  off  and 
the  deck  running  blood. 

"You  ought  to  have  sanded  the  deck  first, 
man-of-war  fashion,'  I  sung  out. 

'"You  mind  your  wheel!' hollers  Bill.  'We'll 
sand  the  deck  with  bodies!' 

"There  was  a  good  deal  of  dull  thumping  of 
the  deck,  and  many  goes  overboard  without  a 
boat  and  with  a  stiff  air  of  thinking  they  could 
walk  the  water,  or  not  caring  whether  land  or 
water  waits  for  their  feet.  The  first  mate  was  one 
of  these,— died  where  he  was  gagged  and  bound, 
maybe  from  fright  at  being  helpless.  There  was 

41 


few  left  of  the  good  men  and  true  sort,  and  they 
was  mostly  the  scared  ones  who  never  shows 
fight.  The  launch  was  lowered,  the  cap'n  and 
second  mate  forced  to  go  over  into  it  by  pistols 
held  at  their  heads.  The  cap'n  was  fond  of  his 
ship,  let  alone  the  disgrace  of  losing  a  treasure- 
cargo,  and  as  the  Petrel  sheers  off  his  last  look  at 
us  was  pitiful.  I  knowed  he  was  steering  near  the 
wind;  they'd  killed  him  as  much  as  if  they'd  shot 
him.  He  was  speechless,  but  the  mate  yells  and 
yells  back  till  the  ship  lost  hail  of  him,  telling 
the  leaders  of  the  mutiny  what  blasted  fools  they 
was,  for  none  of  'em  could  navigate.  The  first 
thing  was  to  help  themselves  from  the  ship's 
stores,  and  they  drinks  all  hands  quiet  for  a  spell. 
The  poor  lady  had  heard  the  row  and  locks  her 
self  up  and  tells  through  the  door  anybody  that 
comes  that  she  is  ill.  She  was  such  a  frail  wax-doll 
they  cares  nothing  for  her  more  than  for  a  foam- 
wreath.  They  tears  and  yells  and  sings  till  they 
drops.  When  they  sobers  up,  they  has  a  long  talk 
and  decides  to  land  at  some  island  and  bury  the 
treasure  to  lose  its  link  with  the  ship. 

"  'There  was  a  stiff  blow  last  night,'  says  Choc 
olate  Charley  to  me,  'and  we  knows  who  called 
it  up,  you  Jack  of  Spades,  and  we're  not  going 

42 


to  risk  our  cargo  with  you.  Just  you  find  a  desert 
island  now,  if  you  values  your  life!' 

"I  knows  more  about  setting  a  course  than 
they  thinks,  so  I  steers  in  a  certain  direction, 
though  it  was  many  days  afore  we  sights  an  island ; 
and  Chocolate  Charley  was  suspicious,  and  used 
to  stand  and  glare  at  me  and  want  to  curse,  but 
hardly  dare,  'cause  they  was  afeard  of  the  Finn's 
power  for  bedevilment.  And  I  don't  know  but 
some  of  'em  thought  I  conjured  up  the  island 
we  finds.  It  did  look  like  a  vision,  with  its  coral- 
grit  like  drifts  of  snow  heaped  on  the  dark  blue 
water,  its  tall  spikes  of  grass,  its  clumps  of  co- 
coanut-trees  with  tufted  heads,  its  glaring  green, 
and  its  birds  of  gold  and  red  and  blue.  We 
couldn't  get  very  near,  and  the  treasure  has  to  be 
carried  ashore  by  boat-loads,  and  some  of  it  gets 
swamped  in  the  surf.  I'll  not  deny  I  was  looking 
at  it,  hoping  it  might.  It  took  several  days.  The 
rest  of  us  men  goes  ashore,  too;  the  scary  ones 
had  to  help. 

"I  finds  out,  one  afternoon,  why  supplies  was 
taken  off  the  vessel,  too.  Chocolate  Charley  was 
the  only  one  for  burying  the  treasure;  Black  Bill 
was  for  building  a  big  raft,  to  get  picked  up  with 
it  at  sea,  and  no  proof  it  was  a  steal  nor  trouble 

43 


of  coming  back  to  dig  it  up,  and  nobody  else  finds 
it.  I  overhears  Gentlemen  George  mutter: 

"  'If  we  leave  it  here,  we'd  better  bury  the  Finn 
with  it  to  leave  him  on  guard/ 

"If  you  do/  says  I,  'by  the  powers!  remember 
me  when  the  next  storm  rises,  that's  all!' 

"At  dusk  I  steals  down  to  the  water's  edge 
and  waits  for  the  steady  ones,  meaning  for  us  to 
get  back  to  the  ship  on  the  sly  and  get  off  with 
the  lady  and  cabin-boy  left  on  board.  I  could 
navigate  well  enough.  There  was  such  a  thunder 
of  big  rollers  I  hears  nobody  behind  me.  The 
first  I  knows  I  gets  flung  up  the  beach.  Choco 
late  Charley  was  sawing  away  on  the  hawser 
with  his  sea-gully.  He  had  a  sheet  in  the  wind's 
eye,  and  never  thinks  how  taut  the  Petrel  was 
pulling.  When  the  hawser  snaps,  it  jerks  him 
into  the  surf.  The  vessel  starts  off  in  a  hurry.  I 
see  the  lady  in  the  big  stern-window,  a  light  be 
hind  her.  She  springs  to  her  feet.  The  boy  shows 
dimly, hanging  over  the  bulwark  rail;  I  hears 
his  faint  cry  for  'Alexis!'  for  we  gets  on  well  to 
gether.  Chocolate  Charley,  carried  by  the  tide 
goes  plunging  after,  as  if  in  chase,  and  he  never 
comes  back.  The  scary  ones  didn't  get  round. 
Black  Bill  and  Gentleman  George  come  running 

44 


down,  thinks  I  cast  Chocolate  Charley  into  the 
water,  and  falls  upon  me ;  Gentleman  George, 
too  lazy  to  do  more  than  hold  me,  while  Black 
Bill  give  me  such  a  drubbing  I  knowed  nothing 
for  days. 

"When  I  comes  to  myself  there  was  no  noise 
but  the  beating  of  the  surf  on  the  reef.  It  was 
broad  day.  There  was  this  little  man,' 'patting  the 
monkey,  "stands  by  me  and  looks  anxious. 

"When  he  finds  that  I  see  him,  he  offers  his 
paw,  as  much  as  to  say: 

"'Let  me  know  if  I  can  do  anything/ 

"I  was  too  weak  for  a  while  to  stir.  When  I 
could  sit  up  I  see  all  the  litter  of  raft-building. 
They  must  have  shanghaied  the  timid  men  for  the 
sake  of  having  their  help.  They  had  left  pork  and 
rum  and  biscuit,  'cause  they  was  afeard  of  me.  I 
had  been  simply  marooned.  It  wa'n't  likely  there 
was  any  cache,  though  I  hunts  some,  but  finds  no 
sign.  The  company  of  the  monkey  was  worth 
more  than  the  treasure  there.  Poor  little  cast 
away,  he  must  have  been  some  wrecked  sailor's 
pet,  for  monkeys  are  not  found  on  those  islands, 
and  I  never  heerd  of  one  that  had  evoluted  into 
being  born  with  a  little  cap,  which  he  has  on  when 
I  first  see  him.  He  was  fine  company,  not  to  talk, 

45 


but  a  deep  thinker;  he  used  to  sit  by  me  watching 
the  sea  for  a  sail,  and  look  dreadfully  old  and 
wise—- seemed  to  know  the  most  of  the  two  of  us. 
He  would  climb  a  tree  and  throw  cocoanuts 
down,  and  take  care  not  to  hit  me,  and  watch  me 
fish,  as  if  he  felt  himself  above  such  silly  trifling 
away  of  time,  always  staying  by  me,  unless  he 
sees  I  means  to  shoot  a  bird;  then  he  runs  into 
the  woods  till  the  noise  is  over.  Sometimes  he 
would  study  hard  over  a  tattoo-mark  on  my  wrist 
and  arm;  it  was  plain  he  thought  it  ought  to  run 
up  to  my  shoulder;  he  would  push  up  my  sleeve 
and  puzzle  over  the  matter  and  look  up  in  my 
face.  So  I  made  out  that  his  master  must  have 
had  the  long  tattoo  he  was  remembering.  When 
I  first  see  the  Jolly  Polly  staving  along  with  the 
Petrel  behind, I  says  to  him:  'By  thunder!'  And 
he  claps  his  paw  on  his  knee,  as  if  the  sight  was 
just  what  surprised  him.  When  the  Jolly  Polly 
takes  us  aboard  he  acts  all  at  home,  and  sits  up 
in  the  rigging  as  if  he  was  hired  for  the  lookout. 
The  boy  and  I  couldn't  talk  much  about  the  lady. 
We  didn't  think  to  see  anybody  belonging  to 
the  Petrel,  but  as  we  goes  into  Honolulu  I  grabs 
Ivan's  arm,  and  says  I: 
"'Did  you  ever  lay  eyes  on  that  man  afore? 

46 


Over  there,  at  the  top  of  the  landing-stairs.  See 
him  stare  at  us!' 

"'Lord!'  says  the  boy. 

"But  we  never  run  afoul  of  Black  Bill  and 
Gentleman  George,  and  you  may  lay  to  that.  As 
soon  as  I  stands  up  again  on  that  there  island  I 
spends  the  same  hour  every  night  thinking  of 
'em  and  their  raft,  and  dancing  three  steps  to  the 
right,  three  steps  to  the  left,  and  three  turns  with 
my  arms  raised  to  the  full  moon,  and  whistling, 
whistling,  whistling.  You  get  great  help  in  such 
things  from  doing  of  it  in  a  lonely  place;  you 
needn't  think  your  wish  with  such  heavy  under 
lines,  so  to  speak;  mine  took  to  'em  like  pitch. 

"There  was  a  shipshape  gale  come  up  that  no  raft 
could  live  in!" 

The  sailor's  little  wizard-chum  gave  him  a  pat 
on  the  head,  as  if  in  high  approval. 

"Who  the  lady  was  or  where  she  come  from, 
nobody  on  the  Petrel  knew,"  the  big  mate's  rum 
bling  voice  began:  "If  she'd  waited  till  daylight 
the  police  or  custom-house  officers  would  have 
ketched  her.  It  was  along  in  the  third  watch  she 
come  gliding  down  the  wharf  like  a  black  shad 
ow.  As  she  sweeps  along  the  deck  we  see  right 
off  she  was  Al,  fore,  main,  and  mizzen.  Under 

47 


her  long,  black  cloak  there  was  the  edge  of  a  prim 
rose  satin  ball-dress.  She  seems  sort  of  wild  to 
find  some  one  she  expects  to  meet,  and  begs  the 
cap'n  to  wait— wait— wait!  But  he  sees  she  was  a 
way-up  lady  and  was  afeard  of  trouble.  She  didn't 
tell  who  was  to  come,  only  says* Wait!'  Our  su 
percargo  was  a  stranger,  who  didn't  come  nor  send 
word. The  cap'n  scented  some  police  business; 
so  off  we  goes,  hand  over  hand,  right  on  time. 
The  cap'n  give  her  the  cabin  the  supercargo 
would  have  had,  and  the  officials  overhauling  us 
afore  we  starts  didn't  notice  there  was  any  door 
where  the  cap'n  slid  the  big  screen  he  kept  for 
scary  times.  When  we  gets  fairly  off  up  she  comes 
on  deck.  She  had  all  us  officers  taut  in  tow,  first 
look— she  was  a  dainty  duff,  with  lots  of  plums, 
but  she  didn't  see  anybody  there.  She  just  cries 
and  rings  her  hands  and  holds  her  arms  towards 
the  last  of  the  Russian  shore.  It  is  queerly  level 
to  what  this  coast  is,  so  flat,  so  low,  just  a  pencil- 
line  between  sea  and  sky,  the  slop  of  the  water 
often  hiding  the  land,  the  lighthouse  towers 
looks  like  sails. 

'  'Oh!  for  your  wings  to  go  back— to  go  back!' 
she  cries  to  the  gulls. 
"The  captain  tries  to  calm  her,  and  gets  her  to 

48 


go  below  agin,  and  there  she  stays  for  weeks.  She'd 
only  just  come  on  deck,  biting  lemons  all  day, 
when  we  had  the  mutiny  .There  was  great  wonder 
about  our  missing  supercargo,  and  through  that 
it  at  last  got  told  about  among  the  crew  that  the 
Petrel  was  a  treasure-ship.We  did  have,  but  didn't 
mean  to  have  all  hands  know,  six  hundred  thou 
sand  pounds  in  gold  from  the  bigGolenski  mines, 
even  where  it  was  consigned  kept  secret,  so  far, 
by  the  captain  and  first  mate.  We  had  weeks  of 
fog  and  days  of  gale,  and  that  tremendous  blow, 
after  some  of  the  ugly  men  had  been  put  in  irons, 
sends  us  far  off  our  track,  and  the  Petrel  was  a  lost 
bird  till  she  could  have  all  hands  at  work. 

"I  never  sailed  along  of  a  harder  set;  I  knowed 
Chocolate  Charley,  Black  Bill,  and  Gentleman 
George  was  ripe  for  the  gallows,  but  I  didn't 
think  they'd  break  out  this  trip  till  I  found  them 
athwart  my  hawse.  It  was  a  lovely  fight  after  I 
sails  slap  in.  Blows  and  kicks  and  cries  and  stamp 
and  rush  of  feet,  and  roar  of  shots  and  cutlasses 
clashing,  and  the  deck  slippery  with  gore!  Lord 
love  ye!  it  was  fun !  Never  got  so  thirsty  in  my  life ! 
Pity  the  leaders  got  drownded,  I'd  have  liked  to 
dangle  'em,  a  pretty  row  of  'em,  from  a  yard-arm! 
If  all  the  steady  men  on  board  had  been  decent  and 

49 


loved  fighting  as  I  do,  as  a  baby  loves  sweets,  we 
could  have  got  Black  Bill  and  his  gang  into  irons. 
And  when  that  mess  of  swabs  cast  the  cap'n  and 
me  loose,  I  was  swearing  mad,  'cause  I  knowed 
we  could  have  got  the  best  of  'em,  if  there'd  been 
enough  spunk  on  board. When  the  cap'n  see  his 
pet  ship  going  off  with  this  here  precious  cargo 
right  afore  his  blessed  dead-lights  and  knows  the 
cruise  is  bungled  for  good  and  all,  he  jumps  over 
board.  All  his  plans  about  ship  and  treasure,  all 
his  concern  in  life  amounts  to  a  few  bubbles  float 
ing  by  me!  I  must  have  been  within  half  a  plank 
of  death,  tossing  in  that  there  boat  nigh  upon  a 
month.  I  got  out  of  provisions;  the  soft-headed 
lubbers  flung  only  a  little  stock  on  board;  it's  a 
wonder  the  likes  of 'em  done  so  much.  I  turned 
light-headed,  and  when  I  hove  in  sight  of  the  Black 
Gull  I  knowed  nothing  of  it;  but  they  sees  and 
sends  a  boat.  I  was  for  fighting  when  they  sheers 
alongside,  and  they  has  to  seize  me.  I  was  sick  for 
weeks  afterthey  left  me  at  Honolulu. When  I  gets 
out  doors  I  goes  to  the  landing-stairs  and  sits  in 
the  sun  with  other  salts  stranded  there,  to  do  my 
share  of  jawing  about  rot'ry  storms  and  pirates. 
"There  was  a  Russian  not  long  from  China 
and  Japan  that  I  had  some  talk  with ;  but  I  never 

50 


thinks,  by  a  long  sea-mile,  that  he  knowed  any 
thing  about  the  Petrel,  till  the  Jolly  Polly  come 
a-towing  of  her  round  the  bight.  When  I  gets  a 
bit  over  my  own  set-back  by  it,  I  sees  a  sudden 
change  in  this  man's  face,  a  whiteness,  a  set  hold 
ing  of  himself  together,  as  if  some  shock  was  a- 
threatening  to  knock  him  to  pieces. 

lt'Do  you  know  either  of  the  ships?'  says  I. 

"He  looks  at  me  as  though  he  didn't  know 
what  I  says;  and  it  was  plain  he  couldn't  speak." 

The  mate  took  the  sailor's  cards  into  his  ragged 
fingers  with  livid  patches  of  nails  and  set  himself 
to  playing  solitaire,  keeping  his  air  of  bluster  to 
ward  the  game,  and  fierce,  even  in  his  silence. 

"The  day  before  I  was  to  leave  St.  Petersburg," 
said  Stroganoff,  "as  supercargo  on  the  Stormy 
Petrel,  a  note  came  inviting  me  to  the  theatre, 
signed  by  an  unknown  name.  Locking  my  door 
and  lowering  my  window- shades,  I  dipped  a 
glass-brush  in  a  corrosive  liquid  and  wet  the 
paper.  The  common  ink  vanished.  The  page 
turned  blank.  Then,  like  a  flock  of  wild  geese 
trooping  across  a  pale  autumn  sky,  letters  in  an 
other  handwriting  rushed  into  sight.  Here  was  a 
notice  to  appear  that  night  at  an  'illegal'  tea-party 
to  be  given  by  our '  Circle'  at  the  house  of  Vas- 

51 


sily  Botcharov,  late  ataman  or  leader  in  a  military 
affair  which  had  failed.  This  was  to  talk  of  and 
guess  at  the  unknown  fate  of  some  members  of 
our  Circle  who  had  been  lost  by  the  late  failure, 
doubtless  carried  off  secretly.  I  was  about  to  give 
up  this  life  of  constant  dread.  I  would  not  have 
gone  to  Vassily's  but  for  the  hope  of  persuading 
my  friend  Feodor  Bolchakoff  and  his  betrothed, 
Nadia  Hilkoff,  to  also  leave  the  country.  They 
had  become  too  well  known  as  at  least  'sympa 
thizers'  with  the  Circle.  Feodor  was  still  a  'legal' 
man,  living  under  his  own  name,  with  a  genuine 
passport,  but  we  knew  he  had  been  lately  watch 
ed.  He  had  'tarnished'  his  rooms  by  letting  a 
refugee  stay  there.  Nadia  was  an  aristocratic  con 
vert  to  our  Circle,  had  inherited  money,  and,  to 
divert  suspicion,  still  wore  clothing  too  costly 
and  elegant  for  one  of  her  views.  She  looked 
very  beautiful  that  evening  when  we  three  min 
gled  with  the  dancers  at  the  ball  in  the  Taurida 
Palace;  her  dress  was  of  point-lace,  over  prim 
rose  satin;  bouquets  were  held  on  shoulder  and 
skirt  by  clusters  of  diamonds,  and  there  was  a 
string  of  pearls  in  her  hair.  Feodor  was  as  fine- 
looking  as  she." 
The  Finn,  leaning  toward  me  with  his  eyes  in- 

52 


tently  upon  me,  pointed  to  Stroganoff.  I  had  a  vis 
ion  of  this  handsome  man,  not  in  his  fur  pelisse, 
but  dressed  as  a  military  officer,  gold  embroidery 
on  his  uniform,  diamonds  on  his  heavy  gold 
epaulets,  buckle,  sword-hilt  and  scabbard,  step 
ping  through  the  stately  polonaise,  with  the 
beauty,  in  the  famous  half-mile  of  ball-room  and 
conservatory  with  twenty  thousand  wax-lights 
on  pillars,  on  plants,  tracing  border  of  friezes  and 
outlining  arches. 

"Petroff,  one  of  the  intermediate  class  who  aid 
secretly  and  know  movements  and  addresses  of 
the  Circle  and  its  friends,  said  in  my  ear,  as  he 
passed  in  a  dance: 

'  The  wolves  are  out  to-night/ 

'This  need  not  mean  that  they  would  visit 
Vassily.  In  a  waltz  Nadia  whispered : 

"  1  met  Dudorov  Katchenski/ 

"Where?'  I  asked  anxiously;  he  was  one  of 
our  'disappeared/ 

"  'On  the  Nevskoi  Prospect.  Swiftly  as  my  car 
riage  passed,  he  yet  made  the  sign  not  to  speak 
to  him/ 

"We  could  not  leave  the  ball  too  long  before 
others/' 

The  vision  fled.  Stroganoff  wore  his  pelisse  and 

53 


sat  before  me.  The  Finn  sank  back,  drawing  the 
long  breath  of  exhaustion. 

"Hours  after  midnight  are  especially  danger 
ous,  yet  Vassily's  safety- signal  in  his  window 
awaited  our  coming.  Nothing  had  been  learned 
of  other  vanished  members. 

"There  was  still  to  be  'removed'  the  official  of 
the  Fortress,  who  had  lately  escaped  the  Circle. 
Such  officers  know  our  unbroken  law,  not  to 
follow  if  they  take  themselves  off;  but  he  boldly 
stayed,  and  we  had  letters  from  the  prisoners  com 
plaining  of  fresh  cruelties  from  him.  To  decide 
who  should  move  as  our  avenging  hand,Vassily 
wrote  'Act!' on.  a  slip  of  paper,  folded  and  placed 
it,  with  many  looking  like  it,  in  a  Chinese  jar, 
stirred  them  as  if  a  careful  brew  of  poison,  and  of 
fered  the  bowl  to  each  of  us.  No  sign  was  made 
as  to  which  one  had  drawn  the  word.  I  feared  Na- 
dia's  heightened  color  betrayed  her  as  its  owner. 
I  felt  sure  she  had  it  when  she  gave  all  her  jewels 
toTchartkoff,  an  old  gray-beard  who  had  just  been 
to  Paris  to  sell  such  contributions  to  the  Cause 
and  was  going  again.  I  urged  her  and  Feodor  to 
leave  on  the  Petrel ;  but,  as  we  say,  the  mind  mud 
dled  the  reason ;  they  would  not  hear  of  it. 

"Tchartkoff  startled  all  by  flinging  a  big  bomb 

54 


among  us.  It  exploded  from  the  fall  into  a  thou 
sand  bits  of  candy— a  French  device. 

'"Is  it  ready?*  he  asked;  for  names  of  persons  or 
things  are  left  out  of  the  Circle. 

"  1  have  to  fit  the  touch-holes,  that  is  all/  said 
Vassily.  His  wary  ear  caught  some  sound,  which 
made  him  snatch  the  candle  from  the  window, 
just  as  Petrofftore  up  the  stairs  and  burst,  breath 
less,  into  the  room,  crying: 

'"Save  yourselves!  The  police!' 

"I  managed  to  murmur  to  Feodor  and  Nadia: 
'Come  to  the  ship  if  you  can  get  there/  and  then 
we  had  fled  by  different  ways. 

'  'I  doubled  and  turned  through  our  secret  roads, 
passing  across  gardens,  and  even  through  houses, 
but  as  soon  as  I  stepped  into  a  main  street  I  was 
stopped,  and  twenty-four  hours  later  was  on  my 
way  to  Siberia.  None  of  our  Circle  were  in  my 
gang  of  prisoners.  There  was  no  way  to  learn 
whether  they  were  in  some  other  lot  or  were  not 
caught.  To  ask  would  bring  them  into  danger 
they  might  have  eluded.  So  with  torture  about 
them  for  my  close  companion,  I  crossed  that  aw 
ful  desert  where  villages  show  like  mustard-seeds, 
scattered  so  far  inthewhitewaste.To  escape  would 
be  only  to  die  by  hunger  or  by  wolves.  Even  the 

55 


few  trees  hold  their  branches  in  gestures  of  fear 
and  despair,  softened  only  by  powder  and  fili 
gree  of  snow  from  a  low  sky  of  unbroken  gray. 
The  Great  Post  Road  was  punishment  enough. 
I  was  saved  from  work  in  the  Nerchinsk  mines. 
I  met  in  Siberia  a  high  official,  who,  on  account  of 
old  family  obligations,  secretly  helped  me  to  join, 
in  disguise,  a  tea-caravan  returning  to  China.  An 
other  journey  of  week  after  week,— that  long  land 
route  to  Shanghai,by  sleigh  through  Siberia,camel 
through  Tartary,  boat  and  mule  through  China; 
but  now  a  sense  of  freedom  gave  me  strength. 

'  'Uncertain  what  to  do,  weary  in  mind  and 
body,  I  wandered  to  Nagasaki,  and  then  to  Hono 
lulu,  where  I  lingered,  not  knowing  that  I  waited 
to  see,  with  amazement,  the  arrival  of  the  Petrel, 
to  hear  the  story  of  the  caption  of  the  Polly,  and 
to  walk  up  on  his  left  and  say: 

'"I  was  the  supercargo  of  that  ship/" 

"I  steps  up  on  the  cap'n's  right,"  says  the  gruff 
Dmitrivitch, "and  I  says  to  him, says  I:  'I  was  the 
second  mate/" 

Furious  with  himself  about  his  game,  he  sat 
glowering  at  the  cards. 

Stroganoff  had  gone  to  the  piano,  and  was 
softly  playing. 

56 


"Then/'  said  the  captain/1  sold  the  Jolly  Polly 
and  the  chance  of  salvage-claim  for  the  Stormy 
Petrel.  We  had  a  touch  of  cholera,  and  there  was  not 
much  left  of  us  when  we  reached  San  Francisco/' 

"Thank  you,"  I  said.  "How  I  wish  I  could  have 
seen  what  the  lady  had  written!" 

The  captain  drew  from  his  pocket  a  folded 
paper,  yellow  with  age  and  blue  with  damp, 
opened  it  and  read  to  me  an  appeal  from  the  poor 
lady  to  her  lost  lover.  The  undercurrent  of  Stro- 
ganofFs  music  made  it  seem  very  touching. 

"It  has  the  stress  of  Mascagni's  Intermezzo!" 
I  cried.  "And  he  never  knew!" 

"That  is  as  it  may  be,"  said  Volokhoff. 

"We  cannot  tie  and  unite  knots  in  the  thread 
of  destiny,"  said  Stroganoff. 

"It  leaves  the  story  so  incomplete,"  I  said.  "But 
that  is  real  life.  Or  is  it  that  our  glimpse  is  un 
certain?" 

"Life  is  a  bungled  voyage  anyhow,"  growled 
Dmitrivitch."By  the  time  you  gets  the  hang  of 
your  sealed  orders  you're  too  nigh  port  to  set 
your  course  different,  and  you're  sure  to  wish 
you  could." 

He  was  in  another  fume  over  solitaire,  glaring 
at  cards  and  Ivan  till  the  poor  boy  ran  out. 

57 


"What  a  man  is  to  know  would  be  sure  to 
reach  him,"  said  Volokhoff. "  We  have  a  story  of 
a  captain  who  put  to  sea  without  paying  a  debt 
contracted  on  a  relic  of  the  cross.  A  storm  arose, 
which  he  calmed  by  throwing  overboard  a 
chest  with  the  money,  which  floated  safely  to  the 
claimant.  He  was  to  receive  it;  it  could  be  sent 
recklessly." 

"As  we  say,"  said  Stroganoff,  "what  must  be, 
must  be." 

"Now,  she  is  dead,"  I  said,  sadly. 

"What  is  being  dead?  "cried  the  Finn,  with 
indifferent  air,  looking  at  me  with  pity  through 
that  veiled  gaze  of  his  onyx  eyes,  always  looking 
in  rather  than  out. 

"If  we  only  knew!"  I  cried. 

"Creations  of  one  kingdom,  marine,  animal, 
or  vegetable,"  said  Volokhoff, '  'frequently  imitate 
those  of  another.  So  the  spiritual  body  is  often 
born  with  a  mockery  of  physical  blindness  and 
deafness." 

The  Pole  had  glided  into  a  strain  by  Chopin. 

"You  are  the  only  one,"  I  said, "I  ever  heard 
interpret  that  angelic  voice  as  I  do.  It  is  not 
grieving,  but  comforting." 

I  brought  him  my  rhymes  about  it. 

58 


FUNERAL  MARCH 

Chopin 

Hear  muffled  throb  of  the  heavy  hearts,  helpless 

and  terrified. 
Death,  like  a  wind,  blowing  fragile  web  of  their 

affairs  aside, 
Tore  it  and  tattered  and  dashed  it  toearth,  stunned, 

aghast,  they  chide: 

Merged  in  the  One?  Or  transfigured  self?  What 

and  where  is  the  dead? 
Death  is  a  sphinx,  in  vain  Life  has  put  ear  to  its 

lips  and  pied- 
Blank  desert  space !  And  maybe  no  more  though 

All  were  to  be  read. 

All  of  the  body  wants  are  met, 

How  should  the  spirit  famish  yet? 

It's  thoughts  are  dream  and  vision  pearled, 

For  its  delight  there  lies  unfurled 

Transcendent  beauty  of  the  world, 

Though  but  pontoon  to  bear  ye,  hurled 

Above  what  dizzy  deep  on  deep! 

Below  illimitable  steep! 

Through  vastness  ye  in  grandeur  sweep! 

Yet  fear  and  question,  yearn  and  weep! 

The  answers  in  your  longings  leap! 

59 


What  know  ye?  Where  earth  wheels  in  flight, 

Thrown  by  one  of  the  shapes  of  might 

That  weave  the  stars  in  web  of  light? 

What  on  the  moon's  far  side  is  lain? 

Why  tide  of  wind  and  sea  complain? 

How  thunder  roars  in  rolling  wane 

A  burst  of  sobs  through  tears  of  rain? 

Why  sap  in  weed  orpine-tree  vein 

Stirs,  winding  as  to  piper-strain? 

How  one  loam  yieldeth  balm  and  bane? 

Could  /  change  when  the  mere  plum-spray 

Engrafted  on  the  Peach  may  stay 

An  individual  branch?  Nay,  nay, 

That  great  law  moveth  not  astray, 

I  still  am  /,  shall  be  alway ! 

And  I  then  gone  because  unseen, 
Though  not  when  wall  might  intervene? 
Yet,  Nature  warns,  mark  shrivel,  cower, 
The  clematis;  the  orchard  dower 
Of  hidden  strength  awaiting  hour; 
The  deathless  resurrection-flower!* 
Though  wide  the  field  of  night  and  deep 

*South  American.  One  which  the  writer's  family  has  had 
nearly  forty  years,  looks  like  a  ball  of  brown  evergreen, 
English -walnut  size,  but  expands  to  a  saucer-like  lily 
whenever  put  in  water. 

60 


The  dark  no  sickle-moon  may  reap, 

The  dawn-flushed  clouds  in  radiance  heap; 

Foreshadowings  so  round  ye  creep, 

But  dull  to  miracle  ye  keep, 

For  of  the  hints  that  hide  and  peep, 

How  great  is  this:  ye  rise  from  sleep! 

Hear  leaden  beat  of  the  hapless  hearts,  sullen, 

rebellious,  tried. 
None  know  the  Truth's  rapt  exaltation,  or  who 

could  here  abide? 
Yet— Voice  of  tender  vibration!— now  this  their 

thought  as  they  glide: 

The  dragging  worm  in  his  cloak  of  far  knows 

not  of  overhead, 
He,  too,  must  follow  his  kin,  wrap  himself  in  a 

dying  bed — 
What  beauty  rises!  What  joy!  On  inaudible 

wings  outspread! 

He  read  it  aloud.  He  and  Volokhoff  looked  at 
each  other  and  then  at  me. 

They  spoke  together:  "You  are  right,  Mrs. 
Trevelyan." 

Ivan  came  in,  muttering:  "Sei  tshas!  Set  tshas!" 
[Directly,  directly!} 

61 


Dmitrivitch  muttered  back: "They  11  have  to 
belay  that  talk!" 

Again  that  meaning  glance  ran  round  among 
them. 

Volokhoffrose,  saying: "Vladimir,  son  of  Stro- 
ganoff,  it  is  time." 

The  clumsy  bulk  of  Dmitrivitch,  in  my  room 
filled  with  frail  treasures,  made  his  "Stand  by  to 
go  about!" as  he  rose,  seem  needful. 

We  had  a  last  round  of  tea  with  a  general  (fVosh 
durrivia!"  [Here's  to  you!} 

"Mrs.Trevelyan,  pardon  our  long  stay,"  said 
Stroganoff,with  that  unseen  motion  that  gives 
play  to  the  pelisse,  crosses,  doubles,  and  claps  it 
around  the  body,  which  it  swathes  mummy-like. 

"You  are  not  likely  to  see  us  again,"  said  Volo- 
khoff. 

"We  shall  not  forget  you,"  said  Ivan. 

Dmitrivitch  loomed  over  me  in  an  effort  to  be 
gentle  that  was  yet  alarming."Recollect,"  he  said, 
"if  your  ship  is  ever  in  irons,  on  a  lee  shore,  the 
Russians  will  come  to  the  rescue/' 

"You  will  hear  us  spoken  of  to-morrow,"  said 
the  captain. 

"I  am  glad  you  came,"  said  I; "I  am  sorry  for 
exiles." 

62 


"That  word  is  not  used  in  Russia,"  said  the 
supercargo.  "We  say— and  please  remember  us 
as — 'involuntary  emigrants/'1 

"Sometimes  you  gets  in  the  midst  of  a  hurri- 
can  and  your  masts  going  over  the  side  before 
you  knows  it,"  darkly  hinted  the  big  mate,"but 
don't  you  be  afeard.  Just  think  of  yourself  as  safe 
right  among 

tt(Fiw  betel-nut  palms  of  Bombay. ' } 

"Think  of  the  marooned,"  said  the  Finn. 

I  opened  the  doors;  they  passed  out,  bowing. 

The  boy  gave  me  the  comforting  cry  of  the 
sea-watch:  "All's  well!" 

The  monkey,  impressed  by  all  this  leave-taking, 
took  off  his  tiny  cap  to  me,  but  the  lurch  of  the 
sailor's  shoulder  forced  him  to  hastily  put  it  on 
and  clutch  his  master's  collar. 

They  filed  off  into  the  darkness  from  whence 
they  came. 

The  mate  questioned:  f(Na  pravi?"  [to  the 
right?]  The  captain  ordered:  "N*  leva!"  [to  the 
left!]  and  away  they  went. 

As  their  steps  went  down  into  Jones  street  their 
voices  rose  with  true  swinging  deep-sea  roll  in 
other  lines  of  that  old,  old  chant  spread  from 
Breton  fisherman  to  sailors  of  all  countries: 

63 


"The  north  wind,  the  north  wind, 
The  north  wind  came  on  to  blow." 

Farther  and  farther,  fainting  away  in  the  mys 
terious  night,  like  a  salt  breath  of  mid-ocean, 
or  cries  of  sea-birds  over  the  lonely  deep,  a  con 
centration  of  the  poetry  and  color  of  a  calling 
filled  with  the  sublime  symbolism  of  air  and  sea. 

So  I  lost  my  friends.  I  have  never  seen  them 
since;  but  in  nights  of  storm  I  have  fancied  I  heard 
on  gusts  of  wind  their  voices  cheering  me  from 
afar  with: 

"We  were  two,  we  were  three, 
We  were  three  mariners." 

There  was  such  a  sense  outdoors  of  the  night 
being  far  gone  that  I  drew  in  and  locked  the 
door,  thinking  "it  must  be  too  late  now  to  visit 
that  poor  care-taker."  To  decide  I  looked  at  the 
hall  clock.  It  was  past  two! 

I  slept  late  next  day,  only  roused  at  noon  by 
long  and  loud  knocking  at  the  front  and  back 
doors,  even  upon  the  windows.  I  hurried  into  a 
wrapper  and  opened  the  front  door.  Who  were 
these  urgent  callers,  with  eager,  anxious  faces,  ex 
claiming,  as  if  relieved,  "Here  she  is ! "  and"She  is 
here!"  and  crowding  upon  my  steps?  Not  only 

64 


neighbors,  but  policemen  and  reporters  and  some 
of  my  friends  from  the  Mission,  Hayes  Valley  and 
Oakland !  They  looked  at  mewith  an  air  of  doubt 
ing  that  they  really  saw  me. 

"You  are  alive,  then!"  a  reporter  said,  and  two 
or  three  of  my  friends  began  to  cry. 

"Why  not?"said  I."  Why  doyou  come  like  this?" 

A  policeman  spoke: 'The  houses  on  each  side 
of  you  were  broken  into  last  night  and  robbed, 
and  the  care-taker  of  the  fine  house  was  brutally 
murdered!" 

"It  was  lucky  for  you,"  said  a  neighbor,  "that 
you  had  a  party." 

"You  are  mistaken,"  I  said. 

"Well,  your  house  was  lighted  in  every  win 
dow,  up  and  down, back  and  front, "said  another. 

Was  this  the  reason  of  Ivan's  running  about? 

"And  we  heard  music!" said  a  third  neighbor. 

"Nothing  else  could  have  saved  you,"  said  a 
fourth;  "lots  of  folks  know  about  your  valuable 


curios" 


I  could  not  believe  my  kindly  pink-cheeked 
blonds  were  in  league  with  those  criminals.  I  ex 
plained  nothing.The  reporters  went  off  in  a  huff. 
One  of  my  friends  took  me  home  with  her.  Others 
insisted  upon  coming  to  stay  with  me  at  night. 

65 


It  was  late  in  the  afternoon  when  I  left  my 
friend,  a  sea-captain's  wife  living  on  Telegraph 
Hill.  I  came  down  Filbert  street  and  was  looking 
over  at  the  green  and  gray  of  the  Russian  Church, 
thinking  of  Pouchkine's  St.  Petersburg: 

"Under  a  pale-green  sky, 
Weariness,  chill,  and  granite!" 

when  the  Russian  priest  came  up  the  steps  at  the 
corner  of  Washington  Square. 

"Mrs.Trevelyan!"he  cried.  "In  a  city  of  battle, 
murder,  and  sudden  death 9you  are  yet  safe,  thank 
Heaven!" 

"Saved,  too,  by  a  call  from  some  of  your  country 
men,"  said  I,  and  told  the  story. 

"Stroganoff!"  he  cried,  as  if  stunned,  and  made 
me  repeat  the  tales  told  by  the  supercargo  and 
the  boy. 

He  grew  younger  as  he  listened,  with  his  eyes 
on  fleecy  clouds  in  the  west.  "Poor  Nadia!"  he 
murmured. 

I  had  not  yet  told  her  name. 

The  long  slope  northward  of  Russian  Hill  rose 
sharp-edged  with  light  from  an  amber  sunset, 
but  that  was  not  the  gleam  I  saw  on  his  face. 

The  slope  is  like  the  graceful  flank  of  a  masto- 

66 


don,  and,  with  the  house  on  the  brink  of  Vallejo 
street,  overhanging  Taylor,  reminded  me  of  the 
children's  drawing  on  a  slate,  where  a  house  in 
the  left  upper  corner  has  a  path  leading  from  and 
to  it,  undulating  until  it  forms  an  animal,  with 
the  house  for  its  head. 

The  Latin  Quarter  at  this  hour  is  like  a  de 
serted  village;  but  one  or  two  passers-by  greeted 
the  priest  as  "Batiushka" [father].  One  old  man, 
more  intimate,  said: 

"Good  evening,  Feodor." 

The  story  was  complete,  I  thought.  We  went 
down  into  the  Square  to  cross  by  the  diagonal  path. 

"The  lady's  poem,"  he  said  with  a  sigh.  "If  I 
could  only  have  read  it!" 

"I  remember  it,"  said  I. 

We  sat  on  a  bench  near  the  giant  willow,  and 
I  repeated  the  lines  as  if  another  voice  spoke 
through  me. 

A  CRY  IN  THE  DARK 

O,  if  I  knew,  if  /  knew,  if  I  knew! 

Against  flood-tide  of  grief  and  dread  and  smart 
How  prove  my  faithful  love?  by  what  sure  art! 
The  Judgment  Day  I  shall  forget  to  rue 
If  it  but  brings  us  face  to  face,  we  two! 

67 


Hear  me!  though  in  abysmal  broken  heart: 

On  pinnacle  of  joy  upraised,  apart: 
Or  here,  unseen,  the  while  I  weep  for  you. 
Who  shall  forbid  my  message?  It  should  leap 

The  wreck  of  worlds,  black  chaos,  touch  with  glow 

Cloud-drift  of  spirits  in  tumultuous  flow, 
Your  thought  in  sudden  lift  and  splendor  steep! 
I  call  to  you  from  my  soul's  utmost  deep, 

Now — if  you  know,  if  you  know,  if  you  know! 

The  priest's  face  shown;  the  kindling  of  an  in 
ner  light  had  grown  into  radiance. 

We  left  the  Square,  following  Powell  street,  and 
turned  up  Vallejo,where  Russian  Hill  seemed  to 
rise  to  meet  and  listen  to  us,  abruptly  towering 
above  us,  dark,  sinister  even  with  its  lanterns, 
like  a  ladder  of  light  for  several  almost  upright 
blocks.  It  took  the  part  of  a  third  person  in  our 
talk,  one  who  knew  most. 

The  dog-howl  whistle  of  one  of  our  men-of- 
war  pierced  the  air.  I  thought  of  the  erect  bearing 
of  Volokhoffand  Stroganoff.  "Is  there  a  Russian 
man-of-war  in  port?"  I  asked. 

"No,"  he  replied,  "nor  any  Russian  vessel." 

The  hill  loomed  nearer,  higher,  the  street-lights 
wavered,  as  if  the  wisest  one  of  our  trio  drew 

68 


breath.  We  turned  up  Mason  street,  for  I  must 
skirt  the  steep  hill. 

"There  are  no  strange  Russian  sailors  here 
now.'* 

"Would  you  be  sure  to  know?" 

"Certain;  they  do  nothing  new  without  burn 
ing  a  taper  before  a  saint  in  church." 

We  crossed  Broadway,  and  a  few  steps  south 
ward  paused  and  looked  back.  I  was  to  call  here 
for  my  friends  who  were  going  to  stay  with  me. 

"Come  to  the  church,  tomorrow,"  he  said,  "and 
I  will  give  you  a  moleben" 

"What  is  that?" 

"Prayer,  chant,  and  the  burning  of  incense;  a 
service  of  thanksgiving  to  your  guardian  angel. 
You  had  a  night-watch  to  keep  you." 

Even  in  the  dimness  I  could  see  that  sudden 
look  of  youth  still  wrapping  him  like  a  mantle. 

Aloft — over  tightly  packed  roofs,  rising  high, 
crowding  north  and  west  above  the  Spanish 
church— the  last  street  light  of  the  great  hill  flared 
as  if  out  of  the  sky.  From  our  almost  diagonal 
view  across  the  block  there  looked  no  road  to 
what  seemed  a  friendly  sign  from  hidden  guard. 

I  asked  what  I  had  not  before  thought  of: 
"Why  do  they  call  it  Russian  Hill?" 

69 


"Oh!  you  have  not  been  here  long;  you  do  not 
know!"  he  replied.  His  right  hand  was  on  his 
breast.  I  saw  the  third  and  little  finger  draw  into 
the  palm,  in  the  Russian  sign  of  the  cross.  "Years 
ago— before  I  fled  from  the  Nerchinsk  mines— 
they  buried  on  that  hill  five  unknown  Russian 
sailors." 


THREE  HUNDRED  COPIES 

PRINTED  BY  EDWIN  AND  ROBERT  GRABHORN 
IN  FEBRUARY  MCMXXI 

FOR 

THE  BOOK  CLUB  OF  CALIFORNIA 
COPY  NUMBER 

186 


14  DAY  USE 

TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWE1 

LOAN  DEPT. 


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